


Boomerang

by icecreamsocialist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Uni AU, and lots of navigating between friendship and sex and love with no compass, ie lots of blowjobs and feelings and general calamity, with eventual Harry/Niall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamsocialist/pseuds/icecreamsocialist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Like everything else when it comes to the two of them, it just happens--organically, effortlessly, doing without the thinking or worrying or wondering. Zayn presses his smile into Niall's shoulder, and when he leans away for a gasp of air, Niall's grinning down at him, then stretching out the neck of his stretched out tee, then smearing his mouth, wet and wide, against the tattoo he exposes.</i> </p><p>"It" being: kissing each other, kissing other people, misscommunication, inopportune feelings, karaoke therapy, bickering, failed pranks, lots and lots of drinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [la_faerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/gifts).



> Massive thanks to [Ruchi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/works), [Mem](http://harrygolightly.tumblr.com/), [Melissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaidparades/pseuds/mermaidparades), [Molly](http://molleficent.tumblr.com/), [Bridget](http://archiveofourown.org/users/khakis/pseuds/khakis), and my beloved RamFam for all the advice, encouragement, and (mostly) non-violent support. 
> 
> Whatever's-more-massive-than-massive thanks to [Gina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/castoffstarter/pseuds/castoffstarter), for digging me out of holes and steering me away from ledges and entertaining my drunken 3am texting. Forget Zayn, _you_ are days.
> 
> And [Caitlin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/pseuds/la_faerie), you're my muse, my one-person audience, my 4" Louboutins when I'm feeling less than tall. This is for you.

Like everything else when it comes to the two of them, it just _happens_ \--organically, effortlessly, doing without the thinking or worrying or wondering. Drunk on vodka and dumb jokes, sagging into that minging couch in Louis and Liam's flat, they stay vertical only through a display of frankly pretty fucking impressive teamwork. Zayn presses his smile into Niall's shoulder, and when he leans away for a gasp of air, Niall's grinning down at him, then stretching out the neck of his stretched out tee, then smearing his mouth, wet and wide, against the tattoo he exposes.

Zayn tilts his head back and doesn't think about it too much.

Because it feels good. It feels _right_. Inevitable, maybe, because Niall knows which films Zayn hates and which biscuits he needs on shit days and how that scar on his shin happened--it's his fault it's there (don't listen to Niall's version)--so of course he knows how to drag his lips over Zayn's jaw, how to fit their mouths together and push the laughter back into Zayn's lungs until he's pulling Niall down against him and the broken armrest.

Apparently Liam's brain doesn't follow this logic, though, because Zayn dimly hears, "What! Stop! Not on my couch, no, _stop_!" like a fucking telegram or something and Niall pulls back, panting, slick lips curled and splitting his face in two.

"Bucket of water, stat," says the coffee table, sounding mildly amused and very drunk. Or maybe it’s Louis that does, but last Zayn noticed he was less than half-conscious under the table, his limbs all akimbo like an off-duty scarecrow, and he really can’t be arsed to check at the moment. He wheezes out a laugh and tries to untangle the hand fisted in the front of Niall's hoodie.

"Relax," he says, mainly to his idiotic mates but also to the stampede in his chest. He peers up at Niall. "We be chillin'."

Niall grins, the one he wears without thinking, so Zayn leans up to taste it. Niall’s thumb finds a home in the hollow of his throat.

"What's come over you two, honestly." Liam marches over and yanks steadily on Niall's hood until he retreats to avoid suffocation. "I told you not to put more vodka in the Smirnoff Ice."

"I," hiccups Louis (Zayn doublechecks this time), "stand by that decision. Best we've made."

Liam wedges himself between Zayn and Niall, stretching his arms up like a human barricade and barely managing not to upend his own drink. "No secretions on my sofa."

"Nobody's doing any secreting, mate," says Zayn. Niall laughs himself silly and off the couch, and Zayn rues the distance a bit, particularly the space between their mouths.

"Speak for yourself," Louis says, making no effort to get atop the furniture instead of underneath it. He’d started off in that bloody papasan chair--his only real contribution to the flat since he dragged it home all the way from the dumpsters outside Allen Hall--but after a few hours and cocktails, he’d melted down to the popcorn-studded floor and stayed there. Niall flops about next to him and Lou’s disembodied arm shoots out like something from a horror film, yanking on his wrist until he goes full starfish; Zayn decides not to tell Niall about the kernel swallowed up by his hair. Always eating, that one.

"You're like a, a whatsit--herd of rabbits. Litter?" Liam rattles his brain around a bit. "I look away for a second and you're on top of each other."

Niall pulls himself upright and sits on Liam's feet. "Zayn was only telling me a joke," he says. "With his mouth."

"Oh, right, right, I never can tell the difference."

"Pretty sure that's how most jokes are told, Nialler." Zayn knocks his fist against Niall's forehead lightly a few times, like he's checking to make sure there's still something inside; sometimes he wonders. Niall’s unkempt hair distracts his fingers, so they detour to his fringe, sweeping it up off his forehead.

"I just hadn't realized we'd reached that point in our friendship, you know." Liam does a complicated gesture with his hands, un-enhanced drink sloshing around in his mug. "Spontaneous fluid sharing."

"You've a true gift, Liam," Zayn starts, and Niall finishes, "for someone with such a fit string of exes, you're about as smooth as that _Inbetweeners_ git."

"Which one?" Liam asks, like it even matters.

"The whole lot combined."

Liam pulls a face in Zayn's. "Oh, ta." 

"Honestly," Niall says, going all serious, which Zayn knows only means he hasn't started laughing yet, but it has Liam leaning forward in alarm. "Honestly, Zayn, I've been feeling this way for a while, just keeping it in, right, and maybe now's not the time, but I just--I--fuck." Niall rests his elbows on Liam's knees, looking up through his nearly invisible eyelashes, and Liam's eyes dart to Zayn. He is eating it _up_. Zayn tries to keep his mouth pulled straight for better dramatic effect, but the look Niall’s giving him, full-on Louis reading the lineup for a music festival he knows he can’t afford, makes it a proper struggle.

"I am _really_ fucking famished," Niall finishes, like a sudden, passionate revelation, delivered with a face to match.

Liam rolls his eyes about four times and huffs into his mug, and Zayn finally breaks, giggling as he twists Niall up in an impromptu, congratulatory handshake that ends in quick little pinches to Liam's sides. He swats them away.

"KFC from yesterday's in the fridge," he grumbles, and Niall pulls himself up with Zayn's arm and sprints a bit wobbly to the kitchen. He cackles into the open refrigerator and it sounds like there are two more of him, horrors. Liam nudges Zayn’s side so he looks round.

"You sure? Cause you sort of looked..." He arranges his face in an even dopier expression than usual; Zayn's not sure what to make of it, so he just crosses his eyes in response. Liam snorts. "Like, I know you've always had your casual-chill-whatever thing, where you finish each other's sentences and smack his arse all the time, but that was new, yeah?"

"New, yeah, but not, like, _new_ ," Zayn says. Liam just looks at him. He considers explaining, but he knows Liam won't understand, and for that matter, Zayn's not entirely sure he does, either. "I promise, Liam, it's just a laugh. We're cool."

"You swear it?"

Zayn bounces his head off the back of the couch in frustration. He desperately needs this conversation to end; Niall will be back any second, and for some reason he can't bear the thought of him overhearing. Zayn knows by now how Liam works, professional parade-rainer that he sometimes is, how he always instinctually turns the tiniest thing into a massive fucking deal and this is Zayn and Niall and they've got an unspoken pact against massive fucking deals, so he brings out the big guns:

"On a figurative stack of the _Dark Knight_ trilogy DVDs, I swear it." He puts a hand over his heart and everything.

This finally seems to appease Liam, at least enough that he slouches back and actually takes a sip of his drink instead of waving it around like a yellow card. "You'd tell me if you weren't, though?" He leans his head on Zayn's shoulder briefly. "You know how Niall is, full steam ahead, doesn't ever--"

"There's literally nothing to tell so just, like, stop talking," Zayn interrupts, and because Louis is really a terrific friend and Niall has his shining moments of accidental brilliance--

"Liam, if you're that worried about secretions, maybe you should help Tommo out," Niall says.

Then Liam's leaping off the couch and for the empty popcorn bowl, letting loose all the best curses Niall's taught him, while Louis not-so dry heaves under the coffee table and Niall eats a cold drumstick in the kitchen entryway and Tony Stark nearly gets blown up on the telly. Zayn grins at Niall and Niall grins back, a bit of fried chicken skin caught in his braces, and it doesn't feel like the start or end of anything. It just feels like the middle, like an average Thursday night with the people he loves best, like every Thursday before and after and tomorrow, too.

When they leave, Zayn makes sure to smack Niall's arse, and he makes sure Liam sees it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow means Friday, and Fridays mean half-priced pitchers at Simon's. They crowd into their usual booth with three to start and a double order of chips for Niall. Louis eyes his pint with distaste before taking a sip, free hand pinching his nose shut.

"Told you those cocktails last night were an awful idea," Liam says, a bit gleefully and for about the millionth time since they met up, which according to Zayn's watch was only about fifteen minutes ago. Thankfully he hasn't said anything about that other thing that happened last night; Zayn would have kissed Louis for providing such an excellent distraction, except he'd spent his nightcap watching him vomit up half-chewed popcorn. Not to mention he'd undoubtedly have had to sit through yet another painful lecture from Liam on body fluids and binge drinking--as if Liam weren't a massive perpetrator of one after begrudgingly indulging in the other.

Louis gives a long-suffering, ten-minute-or-so sigh. "Innovation comes with a price."

"Yeah, me nan's rug," Liam mutters. He ventures a sip of his pint, his eyebrows knitted together in one very grouchy caterpillar.

"Round of shots on Lou as penance, eh?" Louis kicks Zayn under the table for that one, but Niall rewards him with a grin; he waves for the barman, then lets his arm drape across the booth behind them, tapping a beat out against Zayn's shoulder with his thumb. He hasn't mentioned that other thing that happened last night, either.

There's nothing much to say about last night, is Zayn's point.

Niall finally gets Grimmy's attention and Liam groans into his hands.

"Heaven help me," he says, actually directing his plea ceiling-ward, because Fridays also mean karaoke night at Simon's, where Grimmy specializes in musical schadenfreude and Liam specializes in letting his friends get him dead pissed and eager to make an arse out of himself. 

By the time Grimmy brings over a tray of overflowing, magenta-colored shots, they're deep into their second pitcher and right on schedule. Niall gingerly picks up a glass and takes a sniff; it's a bold move, and off the look on his face, he regrets it. Zayn usually tries to knock them back without actually tasting or smelling or touching the stuff, because he's fairly convinced it's really just _poison_. Sometimes he wonders if Grimmy's even really a bartender; he generally seems to better fit the qualifications of suspected murderer, but either way, he's their unofficial patron saint of getting absolutely hammered. Mainly because he fails to keep good track of their tabs once he's had a few himself.

Two and change years in and if there's anything they can say uni's taught them, it's how to get drunk on the cheap.

"So what've you got for us tonight, Grimmers?" asks Niall.

"Good question," he says. "I started with Sambuca and then just added things until it turned that color." He drums his hands on the table and watches them expectantly. "Felt like a good place to stop."

"Yes, absolutely, cheers," says Liam weakly. Wearing an expression akin to someone facing a firing squad, which isn't entirely inappropriate, Liam takes two of the glasses and hands one off to Louis.

"Right." Zayn clinks his glass with Grimmy's and says his prayers. "Bottoms up, lads!" He throws it back, has a brief moment of panic when he thinks it might make a repeat performance, then reaches blindly for his pint. He hears Niall make a strangled noise next to him.

"That was," Liam croaks, clears his throat, "something."

"Might start breathing fire in a mo’," Louis says, and Grimmy makes a pleased face.

"If I figure out what it is, I'll put it on special next week." He claps Zayn on the shoulder then saunters back to the bar, sneaking a half-full cocktail on the way from a bird too preoccupied with her iPhone to notice.

Niall pulls at his face, _Home Alone_ style, once he's gone. "Please, _never_.”

Louis takes a few massive gulps of beer until his eyes dry up, then taps at Liam's wristwatch. "Looks like it's about time for your opening number, Sinatra."

"Oh, I dunno..." He surveys the crowd over his glass. It's the same every week: Liam pretends he doesn't want to sing, then spends the entire night on stage, even when it's not his turn, until Grimmy chucks him out due to complaints over unsolicited duets. They all know his game.

"Go on, Li. We'll pick something good," Zayn says, not bothering to specify that "we" includes Niall, because he automatically follows him up while Liam shouts for "something big bandy," going all squeaky at the end when Louis gets in an aggressive twist of his nipple--and Liam thinks he’s got something to say about Zayn's harmless arse slapping.

As they head for the bar and the song book, Zayn throws an arm round Niall's neck, mainly to block himself off from the ginger he shagged a few weekends ago. She's making eyes at him but he can't be bothered tonight, not when he feels so good and buzzed and lazy tucked in with his mates. Just a lads' night, he thinks as they perch on the corner of the stage. Maybe a lads' week, technically. Or--fortnight? Whatever, he's rounding down.

Niall opens the book across their laps. "I'm thinkin' something proper rude," he says, flipping through the first few pages until Zayn slaps his hand down.

"A little Boyz II Men, maybe?"

Niall makes a considering but reluctant face, gone a bit cartoon after a few pitchers. "Could do better." He nudges Zayn's hand off and keeps flipping. "Hey, you know what was good, though?"

"Boyz II Men?"

"Sure, but also last night."

"Which part?" Zayn asks. He knows which part, because he's been thinking the same thing and sometimes they do that, but Zayn rather enjoys emotionally torturing his best mates now and then. Niall knows that, too; he pokes him in the cheek. "Oh, you mean when I told you that great joke?"

Niall snorts. "With your mouth, yeah." He rests his forearm on Zayn's shoulder and pokes his cheek again, thumb dragging a little this time in the stubble he's been too lazy to clear off. Grimmy must turn the music up then, because Zayn's heart does a funny thing in time with the Atmosphere song he's got playing.

"That was good," Zayn agrees. He tweaks Niall's chin in retaliation, but he doesn't look up, just keeps browsing through the titles.

"Ah, there!" Niall leans close to point out a song on the opposite page, mouth nearly in Zayn's hair.

"Strange definition of rude you've got there."

"It'll appeal to his nostalgic Disney streak."

They give Grimmy their order and he writes Liam's name on the chalkboard in the number one spot, then the number three. "Just forecasting," he says, grinning either fondly or sadistically, Zayn can't tell. He turns back to their table, where Lou's trying to pull a quarter from Liam's ear, but Niall yanks on his jacket sleeve and nods at the back exit.

"Wanna go for a smoke?"

Zayn shrugs, a bit surprised; Niall will smoke, sure, but usually it's Zayn asking and pulling him along. This time Niall leads the way as they weave through the unsteady crowd, shouting hellos to a few classmates (Niall does, at least) until they finally push into sharp October air. Niall leans back against the door and waves off the cigarette Zayn offers.

"You buy stock in my brand or something?" Zayn asks, lighting one for himself. He kicks a crumpled beer can in Niall's direction. Maybe that is something, if Niall's noticing when Zayn needs a smoke before Zayn does.

"Nah, kind of wanted to talk to you about something but it was too loud in there," Niall says. He dribbles the can between his feet before rocketing it at the dumpster, punching his arms in triumph when it hits its mark.

Zayn takes a long drag, hoping it will calm the sudden shock of unease rippling through his stomach. This feels oddly like an ambush, though for what, he can't say. "What's that, then?"

Niall wanders back over and motions for the cigarette. He thinks through a pull.

"Mate," he finally says, fag hanging from his lip. "I am hard up."

Zayn laughs, he can't help it, and Niall's mouth bends in an exaggerated frown; Zayn rubs his shoulder sympathetically. "Yeah, Nialler?"

"Really desperately fucking hard up," Niall moans, knocking his head back against the door.

"So go pull?" He's a bit lost, honestly. Niall's never had a problem in the social arena; he collects friends and dates and fucks the same way some people collect bad habits, quickly and without even trying. He keeps them, too, the way Zayn's never quite mastered. Aside from bad habits, that is; he takes the cigarette back and their fingers tangle briefly in the transfer.

"So much work involved," Niall sighs. "Makes me exhausted just thinking about it."

Zayn laughs. "Lazy bastard."

"You're one to talk, haven't seen you get any since that ginger during Induction Week."

"She's here tonight," Zayn says, offhand, digging in his pockets for another cigarette. Liam's probably going on soon but he likes it out here, the autumn chill, the bass from inside echoing in the empty alleyway. Streetlamps bounce off Niall's bleached hair like a satellite, and Zayn has to squint a bit to look at him.

"Yeah, saw her. Saw you avoiding her, too."

“Eh, whatever, you know?” Zayn rounds off that brilliant contribution with a shrug, but Niall seems to get it.

"That's the thing, yeah." He rocks back on his heels, gaze caught on the little sliver of sky visible beyond the awning. "Like, I'm sick of looking for new people to chat up, right, like some nights we come here and it feels like I know every single person."

"That's 'cause you do, Nialler."

He waves that aside impatiently. "I'm just kind of over, like, hookups, but I don't, you know, relationships. Or whatever. You know?"

"Uh." Zayn doesn't know, at all, because Niall's apparently decided to stop speaking in sentences. He scratches at his chin. "Quite a... dilemma, innit."

"Right!" Niall exclaims, pointing at him like they're on a game show and he's just won a china set or something. "Yes, exactly." Niall grins; Zayn blinks back at it.

"Okay, so do you have a solution, like? To your, uh, problem?"

Niall seems to take a steadying breath; this is it, Zayn thinks, and fucking finally. He's too sober for this maze of a conversation.

"I want a fuck buddy," Niall announces.

"Yeah,” Zayn says, because he doesn’t know what else to, but Niall’s looking at him like he expects a Nobel prize, so he adds, “That sounds good."

Niall brightens, which considering his usual state, means his whole face is basically just a gleaming set of braces and teeth. He gets ahold of Zayn's shoulders, fingers digging into his leather jacket.

"Exactly!" He shakes him a bit. "We want to fuck around. So why not fuck around with our best mate?"

Zayn blinks some more. He's not shocked, exactly, just maybe a few steps behind. He feels like he agreed to something without actually knowing what it is--or agreeing to it, really. He feels--

He's not sure how he's supposed to feel.

"Am I... uh, Nialler, am I the best mate? Like, us, Zayn and Niall?" He motions back and forth between them and tries to keep his hand steady. "Is this a, like, a proposition?"

Niall nods, watching him closely. His fingers go tighter and Zayn's stomach swoops around a bit, like a paper airplane caught on a good breeze.

"Uh, okay," he says, slowly, carefully, measuring out the words even though they don't add up to much. "Just, okay, give me a second here to--"

"Worked fine last night, right?" Niall interrupts.

Zayn squints at him, tries to work out whatever punchline this must be leading up to, but sees only the glare of the streetlights and his own blank face reflecting back at him in Niall's eyes. There’s no joke, somehow. "Was that, like, a trial run?"

Niall nods and starts chewing on his thumbnail. 

"So you've put some thought into this."

Niall nods again; despite the chill, Zayn goes hot all over. "Not loads. Just kind of came to me last night, you know, whatever." Niall shrugs, lets both hands drop heavily to his sides, palm-side up. "I'm horny and you're fit."

Zayn preens a bit, smirking around an exhale of smoke, and Niall rolls his eyes.

"I considered going for Louis, but there was a table in the way."

Zayn rolls his eyes right back. He lets his half-finished fag drop to the ground and it feels like a decision.

Even if it’s a no brainer, really.

"If you want me to kiss you," he says, and watches with a suddenly aching gut the way Niall's eyes go wide, the way his throat moves as he swallows. He takes two steps forward and leans one set of knuckles next to Niall's head, working the few extra inches he's got on him. That paper airplane is fucking _soaring_. "Belt up for five seconds."

"Make me," Niall challenges, grinning, and pulls him closer by his lapels at the same time that Zayn gets him back against the pub door. They collide somewhere in the middle, lips catching and sticking, like they'd hit pause the night before and finally just pressed play. His mouth is wet and so fucking hot, so Zayn hits fast forward and licks into it. Niall hums at that, sucks his tongue right in, and it sends a shiver down his spine that Niall’s hands, fisted in the hem of his shirt, seem to catch. His knuckles bump against Zayn's back, nudging him closer.

"Okay." Zayn pulls back to scrape his teeth up Niall's throat. "This is a brilliant fucking idea."

"I'm full of 'em," Niall mutters. His hands wriggle into Zayn's back pockets, pulling him in flush, and Zayn slots his leg between Niall's. He feels more than hears the growl of approval against his neck. "I've got more, too, just wait."

Zayn doesn't really want to. "Or," he starts, but has to stop when Niall grips his arse and shoves down, getting some friction going against his fattening dick. "Yes, good," he gasps, goes in for a frantic, dirty kiss. His hand curls round Niall's jaw and tilts it up so he can lick deeper, past the beer and cigarettes, until Zayn just tastes himself. He drags his tongue against the roof of his mouth and Niall's hands scramble up his back, under his jacket and shirt, and the shocking press of cold fingers and bitten-down nails jump starts his brain.

"We, uh, doing this here, then?" Zayn manages. He really, really wants to shove his hand down Niall's jeans but he's not sure about the protocol. Maybe a back alley while their best mate croons a song from _The Little Mermaid_ inside isn't the best setting for their first go round, but--

"Yeah," Niall says, like he's an idiot for even asking, and Zayn's not going to argue when he agrees on both counts. He walks his fingers under Niall's shirt, following down the line of hair he finds, and presses his thumbs into the tight skin above his pants; the muscles there jump. "Oh, fuck yeah."

He laughs into Niall's mouth. "Wank each other off, yeah? Start small?"

"Small?" Niall pulls back, faking offense but not quite succeeding, considering the giddy, swollen smile. "Speak for yourself, twat."

Zayn laughs again, and it’s good. Really, really good. Well, obviously, with the kissing and the hands and the dry humping against a door, but also the laughing. Niall was right, whatever his convoluted point was; it's been a while since he's messed about with someone he actually knows to a significant degree, and he'd almost forgotten the difference that can make.

It's so comfortable, is the thing; Niall laughs the same against his mouth as he always has against his shoulder, and maybe that should mean something, but right now Zayn just really wants to get a hand on his dick. And like he told Liam, that's new, but not really. He wonders if maybe that means something, too, then decides he really doesn't fucking care.

Before he can turn wanting to mutual wanking, though, someone's bursting through the door and sending the two of them flying. Zayn falls back hard against the concrete and loses his breath for one painful moment, while Niall trips violently down the alley like he will after about eight more rounds of Grimmy’s shots.

"The fuck you two doing?" Louis shouts, cautiously peering round the door, then barking out a laugh when he spies Zayn crumpled on the ground.

Zayn gives breathing a try, heart still thundering, then checks his pocket. "You made me crush my cigarettes." Pouting, he plucks one out and shows him, half of the thing hanging limp and broken like an arm stuck mid robot.

"Good. It's my new anti-smoking campaign, knock you out of doorways and break all your fags 'cept the one I want for the walk home."

"Needs an acronym," Niall says, wandering back over and lifting Zayn up by his armpits. "Tosser," he adds, and Zayn would laugh at the look on Lou's face, but he sort of wants to deck it for getting in the way of a good shag. Niall's hands slide down to his waist before backing off, deliberately, like he knows just what it's doing, and Zayn has to count down from ten to make sure his dick behaves.

Something must show on his face, because Louis squints at them suspiciously. "Really, what were you doing?"

"Smoking," Niall says. "Duh."

"For an hour?"

Niall turns to Zayn. He seems casual--hands pocketed, lazy shoulders barely managing a shrug--but it’s all too deliberate, too intent, too carefully blank. He’s waiting for Zayn to make the decision. Zayn remembers Liam’s reaction last night, the excruciating conversation that followed, and doesn’t much fancy an encore. Especially with Louis. So he just shrugs, too.

He expects Louis to push it, because that’s his main extracurricular activity, but he just accompanies their duet of shrugging. "Never mind, doesn't matter, we've got a situation." He beckons them in. "I think Liam's about to start a brawl."

"You kidding?" Niall exclaims, and Zayn can't remember him looking this tickled since he won a free month's worth of pizza at a drama department fundraiser. They follow Louis inside.

"Basically some arsehole brought the house down with Stevie Wonder and now Liam won't give up the mic because he's a jealous shit," Louis explains. "And drunk. Just, like, annihilated. And me, a bit."

"Jesus." Zayn checks his watch. "How'd that happen so fast?"

"How d'you think," Louis says, pointing to Grimmy, who's laughing so hard the bar can barely hold him up. The pub's just about at capacity by now, and the crowd covers its ears in Olympic-caliber synchronization when mic feedback slices through the din. Zayn peers past responses of two-fingered salutes to the stage and spies Liam there, holding the mic high above his head, tangling himself in the cord, while a bloke with a serious head of hair and a seriously unimpressed face watches. Zayn catches Liam's triumphant laughter right before the other boy launches at him and grabs for the mic, and then Niall's shouting for Liam in harmony with another feedback assault and Zayn's plugging his ears, working through the crowd with his elbows.

"Liam, get down!" he shouts. "You look like a massive tit."

Liam wobbles away from his freshly acquired nemesis, still gripping the mic. He pouts and points it at Zayn. "I just wanna sing!"

Zayn hears both Niall and Grimmy erupt with laughter, so he looks to Louis for help.

"You can sing all you want at home," Louis says cautiously, like he's speaking to a wild animal. "I won't even make you turn the vacuum on this time." Liam just glares back.

"It's my turn, anyway, you bloody oaf," the human mop says. Liam answers this with a rude gesture and Zayn almost wants to let this play out, could maybe use an excuse to burn up the adrenaline he worked up outside, definitely wouldn't mind hearing some of Liam's odd Madlib insults he saves for special occasions. And ah, there he goes:

"Fluttering bumhole," he sneers, enunciating very deliberately into the microphone so it's broadcast through the pub, and Zayn hears a few answering cheers of appreciation.

"Alright, alright." Grimmy pushes past Zayn. "Liam, Harry, great show but it's time to fuck off now. Niall wants a turn, take your karaoke battle to _Glee_ and hand the mic over."

"I do?" Niall looks to Zayn in confusion. Zayn nods, wondering why he voluntarily surrounds himself with morons, and motions none too subtly at Liam. "Oh, yeah! Yeah, I do, my turn!"

"Niall?" says Liam.

"What's a Niall?" Harry, apparently, asks. Niall gives a cheerful wave, then clambers onto the stage and offers up his hand. Harry accepts it cautiously.

"Me, I'm a Niall." He beams at him, third highest wattage. It's some powerful shit; Zayn can testify from experience, including the scar on his shin. "We could sing together, yeah?"

Harry thinks this over, then grins. With dimples. "Irish, huh? Get me a drink and we'll see."

"Deal!" Niall gives his hand a good, proper shake, then hops back off the stage, Harry at his heels. Just like that, Zayn thinks; all Niall has to do is introduce himself and he's broken up a fight--the dumbest to ever exist, granted--and undoubtedly gained a new, lifelong mate. Liam can spring for the best fucking friend bracelets.

"Oi, Grimmy!" Niall shouts over his shoulder. "Wanna do your job or summat? Another round for everyone! 'Cept Liam, I mean." Liam makes a shout of protest, then nods in acceptance after nearly nose diving off the front of the stage. Zayn grabs him just in time and hoists him onto a stool.

"Fucking hell, Liam, what did they do to you?"

"Pink drinks, so many pink drinks," he says, leaning his head against Zayn's shoulder. "Tell the curly boy I'm so sorry but also I hate him."

"Sure thing, Li," Zayn says. He rubs his back while Louis sneaks the shot meant for him. "I saw that, you know," he tells him.

"I see things, too.” Louis waggles his eyebrows around, going for mysterious but just looking like a twat. So nothing new there.

"What?" Zayn says. Louis won't elaborate beyond the eyebrows and a few elaborate winks, so he knocks him on the head and turns his attention back to Niall instead. He's standing awfully close to that Harry bloke, leaning in to catch whatever he's chattering on about, but the noise level has gone a bit deafening now that Liam's stopped attacking everyone with the karaoke equipment. He wonders what they're talking about, what's got them so smiley, nearly heads over for an introduction but Liam tugs on his arm before he can pretend to actually give a shit.

"Where's Lou?" Liam says. "So bored."

"Right here, Liam." Louis peers over Zayn's shoulder and rests his chin on it. "Wanna call it a night, then?" Liam nods and almost teeters off the stool in the process.

"Let's try to sneak out before Grimmy remembers to charge us," Zayn whispers. "I'll grab Niall."

"Dunno, he might want someone else doing the grabbing."

Zayn turns in time to catch Niall fiddling with Harry's phone. He rolls his eyes; so he's giving his number, so what, the entire student population and half the campus toilets already have it.

"Head for the door, you two," Zayn tells Louis, handing Liam over, then sidles up next to Niall. He doesn't turn from Harry, so Zayn flicks his ear.

"Twat!" Niall rubs at his ear. He points to Harry with his elbow. "Harry, this's my roommate, his name’s--"

“Twat?” says Harry, twinkling up at him. Git.

"It’s pronounced Zayn, actually," he says, plans to leave it at that, but Niall’s looking over at him expectantly so he conjures up a smile. “Alright?”

"Hey, Zayn.” Harry shoots him an easy grin, because apparently he just hands them out left and right. "Sorry 'bout that earlier, with, uh, Liam? That was kind of dumb."

"Really dumb, yeah," Zayn agrees.

Niall laughs. "You'll fit right in, then, we're all about as dumb as it gets."

Harry thinks this is “wicked”; Zayn wonders exactly where Harry's meant to be fitting. They don't do much besides smile at each other after that, so Zayn gets impatient and drums his fingers against Niall's shoulder. "We're gonna leave, you coming?"

Harry's smile falls a bit on one side, just enough to notice, and Zayn sees Niall hesitate.

"I just thought," Zayn says, leaning in a little closer, eyes sliding to where Harry's watching them. "You might like to hear a few other jokes I know." He lifts one eyebrow when Niall looks up, and it draws out a slow, brilliant grin.

"Yeah, yeah, we better head out," Niall tells Harry. "As you've seen, we can't leave Liam alone once he's had a few, he'll end up arrested."

Harry laughs and waves his phone at Niall. "Well, I've your number,” he says, and does not ask for Zayn's.

"Right! Good, good. Laters, then, yeah?"

And _excellent_ , more stationary smiling. At this rate, Zayn will have to pull the fire alarm to inspire any forward motion. He's not above it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes a few tries (without illegal aid, luckily), but Niall finally gives a goodbye that sticks and follows Zayn outside. They find Louis and Liam sat on a wall round the wrong corner, trying to freestyle but mostly just listing the things they see.

"Niall, Niall, look at that smile," Louis chants as they drag them to their feet. "You make a new friend?"

"Aw, friend!" Liam coos, stumbling half into the road. Zayn gets a good grip on his elbow and pulls him back onto the sidewalk.

"Think so!" Niall says happily. For some reason, Louis looks at Zayn immediately, pulling a face he can't quite decipher. Zayn's considering the most obnoxious way to ignore this when a hand falls heavily on his shoulder.

"No loitering," the mouth that goes with the hand says, and he knows without turning that it's Paul, because it's _always_ Paul.

"Sir Paul!" Liam confirms, knocking Zayn off balance in his enthusiasm.

"Fancy seeing you here!" says Louis. "Out for a perimeter check? Bringing in some perps?"

"Could be." Paul taps at the gleaming security badge on his jacket. "Heard you lot were inciting a riot over at Simon's."

"What, have you bugged us now?" Zayn says.

"I've eyes everywhere."

"Yeah, the whole two on your face," Niall laughs. "Saw you hiding in the corner with a lager."

"I was doing undercover work." Paul tries for menacing, smacking his flashlight against the palm of his hand, but his dopey grin sort of ruins the effect. "Now get on home before I have to haul anyone in for public intoxication."

"Writing yourself up, then?" Louis says. He dances away from Paul with Liam as a shield, pulling him the opposite direction in a sort of backwards conga that can only end in two pairs of skinned elbows, especially since Liam’s looking down at his legs like they no longer belong to him.

"By the way, Paul, did you hear?" Niall says. "You're blessed with me and Zayn’s presence for an extra year!"

"Jesus Christ," Paul groans, and Zayn grins; he knows it's only half a joke. Quarter, even, because Paul keeps a total of six student folders on his desk for easy access and he's currently grimacing at half of their human counterparts--and that's three, not four, because somehow Liam always gets off with just a concerned warning, Paul urging him to actually _achieve_ something at school besides drawing lipstick dicks on half the dentist school windows. Paul considers Liam his project, Zayn thinks, which is Alanis Morissette-brand irony because Liam's the one cheering it all on half the time. Liam smothers his drunken giggles into Louis's shoulder and Paul gives him a pained look.

"Two more years!" Zayn chants, and Niall picks it up with him, doing a stationary little jig while Paul backs away. "Two more years!"

"Not if I get you expelled first," Paul says, but with a resigned sort of wink. "Scurry on home, you delinquents."

Niall and Zayn salute, then recollect Liam and Louis from their pile on a crushed bed of begonias. They navigate the four familiar blocks back to their building, occasionally having to regroup when Liam starts wandering the wrong way. He yells for them to stop in front of a closed Chinese shop.

"That," he says, pointing at a sandwich board sign outside the doorway. It's in the shape of a giant bowl of noodles; Zayn's heading for it before Liam even finishes with, "we must take that."

And they do, because Paul lives on the other side of campus (they've followed him home twice this term to be sure), and because karaoke tantrums notwithstanding, they absolutely always obey Liam's drunken whims. He makes Zayn put his head through the middle and walk the rest of the way home like that, even up the stairs, and Niall laughs so hard he collapses on the second-floor landing of their building.

The sound of it fills Zayn's lungs with something light and fizzy, same as it always has.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After they drop off their drunken cargo and climb the extra flight to their apartment, it takes Zayn three tries to get the door open. It hits him as soon as he fumbles the keys from his pocket, this tense, nervous energy, a rubber band low in his gut that pulls tighter with each step. His fingers are thick and clumsy as they work the keys and Niall snickers, slouched against the wall next to him, cheeks still pinked from the cold and the climb.

When they finally get inside Niall beelines it to the kitchen, kicking out of his shoes and throwing off his jacket along the way. "You hungry?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Got this odd craving for pot noodles," Zayn says, and Niall spins, walking backwards so he can grin in response.

"We should've commandeered that."

"Nah, you'd have tried to eat it eventually after too many Irish car bombs," Zayn says, and Niall laughs, shrugging his concession, before ambling over to the pantry. Zayn throws his keys and jacket on their rickety cafe table then leans back against the far wall, watching.

It's a familiar enough scene: late in the kitchen after a night up the pub, Niall rooting round the refrigerator for something to eat. Sometimes they pack up a bowl and take a few hits before heading to bed, maybe stare until their eyes go blurry at one of the extra sporting channels Niall sweet-talked Sky into giving them. They've done it thousands of times over the past two years; Zayn knows without thinking his lines, his cues, his marks, but tonight--

Tonight he knows won't end like those other thousand nights, and the thought of how it will--could, he supposes; they didn't shake on it, but grinding against each other in a pub alley seems about as binding a contract as they need--has him absolutely _thrumming_. And he thinks Niall feels it too, the way he's opening and closing all the cupboards without really taking inventory of what's inside, flitting back and forth like a manic blond hummingbird.

"Can you believe it," he says, hanging half his body inside the refrigerator, "don't think I'm even a little hungry." He gives a feeble little yodel, like a fucking depressed mountain climber or something, then reemerges, shaking his head.

"You wanna smoke? Maybe that'll fix you."

Niall considers, face gone comically thoughtful, then hip checks the fridge closed. "No, not really."

Zayn drums his fingers on his chin. "Wanna... play _Guitar Hero_?"

"Nah," Niall says, and takes a step toward Zayn.

" _Scrabble_?" Zayn's eyes slide down to his mouth, briefly, and he knows Niall sees--he _wants_ Niall to see.

"Nope," Niall says, full-blown grin now, and takes another step.

"Wanna start that paper you've due next week?"

Niall's grin twists in disgust. "Jesus Christ, no." He rocks forward, then stops. "Wait, how d'you even know about that?"

Zayn shrugs. "Someone's got to, you're not gonna keep track."

"Well, yeah, like, to be honest, what paper?"

Zayn sighs in exasperation, really sells it just to hear Niall laugh, and that gets Zayn's lips curling, because even under everything new it's still familiar, still _them_ , and that's how he knows this will work. They stare at each other for a few ticks, let themselves really look for once, and Niall's gaze fucking _travels_ , skips down Zayn's mouth, his throat, bare arms, waist. And Zayn realizes: it's not a rubber band in his gut, it's a guitar string, wound so close to snapping and Niall's got his fingers on it, ready to pluck. He's near enough that Zayn could pull him the last step if he wanted, but he likes it like this, reeling him in slow and lazy.

"D'you..." Zayn starts, but Niall's tongue runs wetly across his own bottom lip and he can't think of how the rest of that was supposed to go.

"All this stopping and starting," he mutters, shaking his head, laughing low and rough like Zayn's never heard him, like it would stick and drag against his skin. There's no Liam here, no Louis, no impending karaoke brawl. They'll start and have no reason to stop. Zayn grins. Fuck slow.

"Green means go," he says; it makes no sense, but it sounds good as he's fisting both hands in Niall's shirt, yanking until he's stumbling forward and Zayn’s catching him with his mouth. Niall bites into his smirk and Zayn gasps, burrows his hands under the threadbare cotton of his tee and grips, hot skin and hipbones. Niall pulls Zayn's bottom lip out with his teeth.

"Fuck," Zayn says when Niall lets go, glowing up at him with flushed cheeks and a bobbing throat. Zayn's lip pulses; he tongues it to feel the marks left behind and his stomach drops then, like on that roller coaster Louis tricked him onto last spring, and he always thought he hated the feeling but maybe it's time to reevaluate the things he thought he knew. He can't drag his eyes away from Niall's mouth. "Mine or yours?"

"Mine or your what?" Niall kisses him hard, then seats himself on the kitchen floor.

Zayn watches in hazy confusion as Niall grabs at the knees of his jeans and pulls. They're a little stretched out because he maybe hasn't done laundry in two weeks, and he's not wearing a belt, so they sort of just slip right down over his nonexistent arse and catch on his thighs. Niall leans back on his elbows and laughs until he's gasping.

"The fuck?" Zayn says, still a little breathless from that last kiss, and scrambles for his belt loops, but Niall rocks up and wraps his arms round Zayn's waist and he just goes with it, dropping to his knees, banging them a bit on the linoleum floor. "Fucking hell, Nialler."

Niall's laughter presses against his throat; it's that same rough sound as before, maybe gone a bit hysteric. Zayn prickles hot all over.

"Mine or your what?" Niall asks again as he pulls his face back, humid breath sliding past Zayn’s cheek. On their knees, they're the same height, and Zayn gets distracted with his mouth again. He runs his tongue along the bottom set of his braces, again and again until Niall is wrestling him back against the dirty floor. He gets him pinned between his thighs, straddling him without putting much weight down, both hands digging into his shoulders. The sagging waistband of Zayn's jeans is caught halfway down his dick, trapping it against his leg, pulling tighter the more Niall holds him down, and he feels dizzy with how much he just _wants_.

"Mine or your _room_ , you lunatic," Zayn manages.

Niall shakes his head. "Right here," he says, and fuck if his grin has always been this dirty and Zayn just wasn't paying attention.

"Jesus, the kitchen, of course," Zayn laughs. He gets brave and curls his fingers over the top of Niall's jeans. "How am I not surprised." He pulls, takes it slow so he can map out every new place they touch, until Niall’s pressing his full weight down on him, angling forward so their cocks drag together between layers of denim and pants and they both groan their approval.

"You want me to surprise you?" Niall murmurs, accent gone thick, pressing his palms flat on either side of Zayn's head. He swoops down for his mouth but stops just out of reach, kisses just with hot breath. This close, Zayn can focus on only one part at a time: Niall's strung-out eyes, his heat-framed freckles, the way his mouth's all smeared. He's glad they left the lights on.

"You already have," he says absently, straining his neck to press their lips together. But Niall mouths away, down his chin, down his throat as far as he can with Zayn's shirt still on. He pinches his teeth against Zayn's collarbone, the tattoo there, pressing words Zayn can't hear into his skin.

"What?" Zayn says, in a voice he barely recognizes.

Niall crawls back and takes his trousers with him. "Jeans off." Before Zayn can mourn the loss of contact or whinge about the cold floor against his calves, Niall's scrambling back over him with bare legs and rolling his shirt up to his armpits. He licks down his chest, biting at the skin under his belly button and smearing his mouth over to the heart inked low on his hip so he can suck there, hard, and Zayn has to bite his own knuckles to keep from humping the air.

"I like this one," Niall says, drawing back up, and his mouth is slick and so swollen.

"Thanks," is all Zayn can think to say. Niall smiles fondly down at him. He runs his fingers back and forth under the elastic waist of his pants.

"So what's the, um, surprise?" Zayn asks.

"Hmm," Niall says. “Didn’t have much planned, to be honest.” He walks his fingers down to where Zayn's dick is trapped in his briefs, stretching out the cotton, and starts tracing the shape of it, a light little phantom touch that basically amounts to fucking torture, especially when he thumbs across the head. "That work for you?"

"Yeah," he says, not really listening, not really knowing what they're talking about, just pinching his eyes tight and focusing on Niall's fingers as they trace slowly, round and round and round. He doesn't realize he's trying to grind up into it until Niall pushes his hips back to the floor with his free hand. He leans forward a little so he can rest his forearm there, and it feels like a bloody barricade.

"Know what, think you'd agree with anything I say right about now." Niall laughs, low, like it’s coming from somewhere way down deep. "Wanna do the dishes for the next week? Write that paper for me?"

All Zayn sees is the black of his closed eyelids, but he can imagine it, Niall's sloppy, maniacal smirk, hair gone haywire. Then Niall presses the heel of his hand hard against his cock, fingers pinching at the head through his briefs, and it all just goes white for a second. His head bangs back against the floor as his hips strain up, but Niall's arm won't let him move. He thinks about the bruises he'll have in the morning; he wants Niall to put them places people will see.

"No," he tries to say, because he may be hard up but he's not writing anything for Niall's remedial lit class, but it sounds more like a moan, all drawn and wavy at the end. He'd be burning to swallow it back up if it didn't leave Niall swearing, have him sliding over so he's straddling just one thigh and rubbing with his own stiff dick there. It's just his boxers between them and Zayn can feel it all, the shape of it, the heat, the slick head leaving a filtered trail down his thigh. He shivers, blinking his eyes open against the too-bright kitchen fluorescents.

"You sounded like an opera singer or summat, just now," Niall says, giving a shaky cackle, and Zayn can feel his fucking prick bob against his thigh. "You gotta nice set of pipes." He waggles his eyebrows as he says it, working his hand over his covered dick--god, why are they still wearing pants--and Zayn hides his face with both hands, caught between a groan and a giggle and stretched flat across the floor.

"Fucking christ, do you ever stop talking?" If his dick could spare the rest of his body any blood, he'd get his hands round Niall's neck and throttle him, because he doesn't want to have a fucking conversation right now. This is bloody sadistic, worse than when Niall wakes him up by doing the rap from that Bieber song in different accents. He manages to get a grip on Niall's hips, tries to drag him down but he won't budge so he just presses his fingers hard as he can into the meat there. "Find that gob something better to do."

He means kissing, honestly, that's all he's asking for. He just wants to pull Niall down on top of him and suck on his tongue a while, but Niall gets this _look_ on his face and Zayn thinks his jackhammer heart might punch clear through the cage of his ribs.

"Yeah, alright," Niall mutters, rough and close. "Yeah."

And then he's pulling at Zayn's briefs with one hand and grabbing his cock with the other, pushing it flat against Zayn's stomach. He stares down, at his hand and the way Zayn's pulsing in it, flushed and thick and a little wet, and Zayn thinks he might actually go mad. Then Niall rubs a slow, light circle under the crown with his thumb, thoughtfully, like he just wants to see what it does, and Zayn fucking knows he will.

"What're you waiting for," he gasps, nudging at Niall's side with his free knee, gentle but urgent. "An engraved invitation?" He sucks in a helpless, broken giggle because christ, apparently he talks like someone's nan when he gets desperate.

"Looks like you could maybe manage it," Niall answers quietly, eyebrows lifting and lips quirking, but he's flushed clear down past the collar of the shirt he's still got on, eyes bottomless, hand hot and shaking a little against the base of Zayn's dick. If he doesn't do something with it soon Zayn might just fly apart.

"Nialler," he groans, pushing himself up on his elbows for a better view. Niall finds his eyes, and Zayn watches with a skittering heart as his face goes blank.

It sends a bolt of white hot terror through his gut, because Niall seems like an open book most of the time--though sort of in a language that's kind of impossible to translate--and usually Zayn knows without trying, but once in a while he just gets quiet and still and even Zayn can't read him. This is literally the worst possible time for it. He's afraid to ask, but he does it anyway:

"You--are we cool?" If Zayn catches anything like regret on his face he's going to die right here, right on the kitchen floor, drooling dick and steamrolled heart.

But then Niall grins, wide and open, his highest wattage and Zayn's favorite version.

"We're fucking grand," he says, keeps his eyes on Zayn's and goes for it, lifts Zayn's cock and curls his fingers round it. "Right?"

It comes out like a question and an affirmation all at once, and Zayn nods, it's all he can do. Niall sends the nod right back, and then he's hunching over, balancing with one palm on the floor, dick pressed hard into Zayn's leg as he slides back and lolls out his tongue and wraps it, hot and sopping wet, right round the head of his cock. Zayn slams his fist on the linoleum floor.

Niall pushes down with the tight ring of his lips, still staring straight at him, and Zayn's arms shake with the effort of trying to stay upright. He tries to keep eye contact but fails terribly when Niall pushes down to meet his fist; Zayn lets the shutters fall and melts back into the floor.

It's all just tight, wet heat after that, Niall's tongue and spit and the velvety insides of his cheeks. Zayn scrapes his nails against the linoleum, looking for something to hold onto and finding nothing but the shirt tangled round his chest. He wraps his fingers in it and pulls, biting at the fabric until it's wet and his jaw goes stiff. He desperately wants to touch Niall, maybe fuck up his already messy hair, but he's too far away and seems to be doing alright for himself against Zayn's leg.

Niall forces his cock against the roof of his mouth with his tongue, so he can feel every bump and every ridge, and sucks hard on his way back up. It makes Zayn's vision blur, makes him jerk both his legs, even the one Niall's humping into, and Niall makes a muffled noise against his dick at the extra pressure. It sounds like he appreciates it and Zayn's generous, but mostly wants that vibration on his cock again, so he keeps doing it until Niall does a strange sort of high pitched grunt that seems to startle him into laughing, fucking laughing with Zayn's dick still fucked deep in his mouth, and that's it, game over, Zayn fucking loses it.

"Fuck, oh fuck, ah, you--" Zayn tries, but he sort of loses track of words and gives up, gnawing into his mangled shirt to try and curb whatever nonsense wants to slip out.

Niall seems to get the picture but doesn't pull back much, and Zayn can't look at his shimmering eyes, the way he breathes hard through his nose as he grinds dirty and frantic against Zayn's leg and keeps sucking at his dick, swallowing what he can and letting the rest of his spunk slide back down his cock so he can jerk it wet and rough and fast, the smack of it all Zayn can hear beyond his heart crashing away in his ears. He thinks he might just be pulled inside out with it. He moans a "fuck" that has about eight syllables and slumps against the floor, brainless, boneless, insides sparking.

It takes a minute or two for him to float back down to his body, for him to realize that the heavy weight against his lungs is Niall, that he's not moving anymore, maybe not breathing, possibly catatonic with his face smashed into Zayn's sternum.

"Bloody hell, Nialler," he finally manages, and impresses himself by lifting the dead weight of his arm and resting his tingling fingers on the back of Niall's neck. "Who are you?"

Niall lifts his head, propping his chin on Zayn's chest and answering with a smug, shiny grin. There's some spunk high on his ruddy cheek and tufts of fringe sticking to his sweaty forehead. He fucking _winks_.

"Well," Zayn says, still trying to catch his breath. "Come here, then." He's gone pretty jelloid but maybe Niall can just fuck his mouth while he dozes for a bit.

"Nah, mate, I'm good," he answers, snuffling into Zayn's skin. It sends a wave of goose pimples across his ribs and down the small of his back.

"Yeah?" He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but to be honest he's sort of miffed he not only missed him nutting off, but didn't even get to see his dick.

"Rubbed one out on your leg," Niall says, and laughs as he rolls off and onto the floor next to him. The loss of contact makes him shiver a bit and take stock: stretched out on the kitchen floor with his dick out and sticky and his best mate casually talking about humping him. It's another of those benchmarks that could spin this whole thing--the friendship, the benefits, everything--well out of orbit.

But when he lolls his head over, Niall's waiting with an easy, sleepy grin. "Like a fucking terrier or whatever."

"Nice one," Zayn says, beaming right back, and holds up his arm. Niall gives him a high five and he doesn't drop his hand until Niall smacks it three more times.

"Christ, I need a shower," he groans. "And mouthwash."

"Don't know if I can get up, honestly," says Zayn, even though it makes Niall's grin go so wide it looks likely to break his face in two. He pokes his cheek and Niall bats his hand away.

"Hang on, how'd you end up getting sucked off when this whole thing was my idea?"

Zayn gives an evil laugh, waves one set of fingers best he can in Niall's face. "I treeked you vith my cunning and charm," he says, putting on a terrible Russian accent for some reason, and Niall rolls closer to snicker into his neck. Zayn can't remember the last time he felt this great; must be the post-coital endorphins or whatever. Must be what makes him say, "Jesus, why didn't we do this two years ago?"

Niall pulls back to make about three different faces, none of which Zayn can interpret, and the question hangs between them like a blinking neon sign Zayn desperately wishes he could tear down and smash. But then Niall just shrugs, his mouth settling back into a satisfied grin, and Zayn stops trying to phase through the floor. "Guess we just weren't smart enough then."

"Well, we're fucking geniuses now."

"'Scuse you, _who's_ the fucking genius?"

Zayn smacks him in the chest for that double entendre, and Niall's fingers curl round his wrist so he leaves it there for a few beats, tracking the steady, rhythmic thumping below Niall's ribs, before answering--not without heaving a great sigh, he's not giving in that easy--"You, I s'pose."

"Fuck yeah!" Niall cheers, then does a little horizontal dance like Liam's turtle trying to right itself after Louis tips it on its shell. He pauses to adjust his dick, making a face at the sticky mess he finds. "Sick. Alright, okay, I'm going for it." He heaves himself up, picks over Zayn, and wobbles off to the shower. The sudden movement leaves Zayn dizzy.

It takes him a bit more effort to get vertical. When he finally makes it out of the kitchen--maybe he fell asleep on the floor, whatever, not like it's the first or last time--the mirrors are all steamed up in the toilet and Niall's cuddled in his bed with the light off. He turns the shower on then wanders back over to Niall's doorway.

"Niall," he whispers. There's no response, so he tries a little louder, "Oi, Nialler."

"Fuck, what, m'sleeping," Niall finally grumbles. From the light in the bathroom he can dimly make out Niall's scrunched face and wild hair.

"Just," Zayn starts, then realizes he's got nothing to finish with. "Like, you know, good night."

Niall snorts. "Yes, thanks, lovely manners. Fuck off now, please," he says, pulling the duvet up to his nose, but Zayn can hear the smile.

Feeling rather magnanimous, Zayn says, "I owe you a BJ."

"Yeah, put an alert in your mobile."

Zayn laughs and turns to go back to the shower. He forgot the water was still running.

"Hey, Zayn," Niall says, and he hangs back. "That was, like, fun, right?"

"Fun. Yeah." Zayn leans against the door frame. He's still in only his briefs, with his shirt all tangled under his armpits. A fitting description feels out of grasp. "No, actually, fun doesn't quite cover it, I think."

Niall's braces glint in the low light. "Tell me again how I'm a genius."

Zayn groans through a grin. "Fuck off now, please," he parrots back, rocks out of Niall's room and heads to the shower, leaving Niall chuckling behind him.

In the bathroom, he rubs some steam off the mirror with both hands and tries not to smile too hard at his reflection, at the mouth-shaped bruise already forming under his jaw, at his absolutely fucked hair and fucked-out face.

"Admit it, you cunt!" he hears through the door, and decides to stop trying.


	2. Chapter 2

When Zayn blinks to groggy life the next morning--afternoon, whatever; mornings come too soon for Zayn, whenever it is they come--his first thought is in no way Niall shaped.

More like his third. And fourth. And fifth, technically his sixth--

and it's not really anything anyone's keeping track of anyway--

but first he thinks of how lovely it is to wake up on a Saturday without a hangover for a change, and snuggles deep under his covers to properly relish the ambling, open day before him, no major plans or coursework on the horizon. He finds a thumbprint bruise on his left forearm and takes some time to relish that, too, which inevitably brings him to Niall. Well, Niall's hands. And Niall's mouth. He wonders if their arrangement is only good for nightcaps, or if there's a clause for wake-up calls, too.

Zayn heaves himself out of bed when his empty stomach complains too persistently to ignore, throws on the joggers hanging off the footboard, and stumbles into the hallway. His tailbone and the backs of his thighs ache a bit, but in a pleasant, well-earned sort of way.

Niall's sat on the bar when he wanders into the kitchen, bare chested and cross legged, a bagel in one hand and his iPhone in the other. He's looking past both to their jeans still tangled in a heap on the floor.

"If I'm ever going to eat in here again," Zayn starts, and Niall startles, cranes round to look at him with pink cheeks. Zayn spies a fresh lovebite at the base of his throat, can't quite remember putting it there, and feels an answering flush heat up his own face.

"If you're ever gonna eat here..." Niall waves his bagel around like he's trying to coax out the rest.

"Oh, just, uh, gonna have to scrub the floor," he says, not stutters, definitely does not stutter. Niall scrunches his nose in disgust, like the idea of cleaning is worse than walking around on post-coital linoleum. "Secretions, you know," Zayn adds, doing his best Liam, and Niall cracks up.

"Speaking of--"

"Secretions?" Zayn winces a bit when it comes out hopeful. Niall gives him a funny look.

"No, Liam. He wants us to watch the match at theirs, said something about lunch?"

Zayn doesn't know anything about a match, but doesn't feel much like a bollicking for it from Niall--not that kind, anyway--so he focuses on neutral territory. "You decided to eat, then?" He nods at the bagel.

"That's lunch, Malik. This," Niall takes a giant bite and continues, with a little sesame seed downpour, "is _breakfast_. You have to do them in order."

Despite Niall's protests, Zayn insists on cleaning the floor before they leave. Niall helps by standing everywhere he aims the Swiffer, so Zayn shoves him against the fridge and finally gets a hand on his dick. Plus another hand. And his lips, and his tongue.

He sucks at his stomach, right under his navel, until the pink skin goes scarlett and quivers and Niall pushes his head lower with a tight fist of sleep-soft hair. From his knees, Zayn tracks Niall’s flushed skin up to find his eyes, teases with pursed lips against the head of his dick until Niall’s cursing him between helpless gasps of laughter that veer off into groans. It carves a canyon in Zayn’s gut.

“Knew you’d be a dick about it,” Niall rasps, glaring down at him best he can through droopy lids. Zayn pulls back and tries not to focus on the fact that Niall’s thought about this before, about getting his cock in Zayn’s mouth. New but not. Zayn stares up at him.

Slow, deliberate, he smirks with precome-slick lips and swallows the whole hot length of him down. Niall digs his thumbs into Zayn's cheeks on either side, thunks his head back against the refrigerator with a whole lot of ragged cursing, and Zayn decides hygiene isn't quite worth the effort he could be spending on other pursuits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Niall checks his phone while Zayn locks up, then continues to curse at him all the way down to the next floor. It's not as hot when it's over football.

"How'd we already miss a fucking penalty kick?" Niall grumbles for the fourth time, reaching for the doorknob, and Zayn whacks him in the gut for the appalling lack of gratitude. He swallowed, for fuck's sake.

"Penalty kick or blow job, hmm, I don't know." Zayn weighs the invisible options in his hands. Niall actually stops to consider, and Zayn nearly gives him another smack over the internal debate going external all over his scrunched up face.

"Christ, what a contest," Niall says. "Like, okay--no, seriously, _listen_ , quit hitting me--say it's between Zizou's stunner in the 2006 World Cup--"

"You maniac, what contest?" Zayn can't let this continue. "It's blow job, full stop, every bloody time."

And of fucking course, that's when the door swings open.

Lou's stood in the entry, which is more than Zayn was expecting from him after last night, with a grin nearly verging on homicidal; it goes a bit wobbly at the edges, but the force of it still sends Zayn back half a step. He wonders if he should take another, and then a few more, maybe until he's back in his own flat.

"Hello!" Louis crows. He drags Niall in by his shirtsleeves, barely keeping him upright as he stumbles over the threshold. Zayn slips in behind them and hesitates a tick before closing the door; he's yet to sit down and already organizing escape routes in his head. Just in case this bog-standard display of eccentricity increases any.

He's got a feeling it might.

"Blow jobs, you say? How _interesting_! What an _interesting_ topic of conversation for these two, Liam, don't you think? Isn't that _interesting_?"

"Not sure that's even a word at this point," croaks a disembodied voice from somewhere inside the flat; Zayn looks round and deduces the source, a Liam-shaped lump of duvet eclipsing half the sofa. He waves at it, tries to find a head somewhere in the folds.

Niall cradles Louis's face in gentle hands. "Tell Nialler everything," he says. "How bad is the brain damage?" Louis is known for his nipple-based retaliation, so Niall instinctively backs off to shield his chest as his arms come swinging. "Jesus, can none of you keep your hands to yourself?"

"He's got nothing worth saving, I'm afraid," Liam tells Niall, rather belated but brighter this time, now that Louis slagging's on the menu.

"You're one to talk." Louis puts on his ridiculous version of a Wolverhampton accent, presses index fingers above his eyes in what Zayn interprets as some kind of eyebrow impersonation. " _Told_ you those shots were an _awful_ idea."

"You absolutely did not, you were literally pouring them down my throat," Liam says. "And I don't sound like that."

"Oh, right, I was." Louis pulls Zayn into an uncoordinated side-hug. "But at least I'm able to properly greet our guests. Look at me, vertical and everything."

"It's alright," Zayn interrupts, mainly into Lou’s hair. "We've been over once or twice, we're familiar with the hospitality on offer."

"Or not," Niall says, and Zayn recognizes that lusty quality to his gaze. He follows it to the coffee table and Niall's personal heaven: the pizza boxes already sat there, the six pack of Coke, the TV tuned to football. Zayn notes with less interest than he'd openly admit that it's Bradford City playing. He also spies a stack of paper plates and forks-- _forks_ , for fuck’s sake--and half expects to be handed an artfully folded linen napkin, because this is fucking five star compared to their usual set up. Some nights they eat pizza off torn bits of the box. Or other slices of pizza.

"You lot go barmy over the Food Network again?" Niall asks, a bit bewildered but cautious, too, like he doesn't want to risk his good luck. He's halfway across the room before Liam responds with a suspect, "...no."

Louis pushes Zayn into the lounge and cuts in front of Niall before he has the chance to flip open the lid. "Please!" He steers Niall to that bloody papasan chair and pushes him into the cushions; Niall goes obediently, casting the pizza a wistful look. "I'll bring it to you. We got your favorite!"

"Alright, alright," Niall says, rubbing his hands together, then drumming them against Zayn's shoulders as he settles at his feet. "Niall and Zayn super special!" Their first year, they'd discovered themselves to be something like pizza soulmates, and according to Niall, he knew then they'd be best friends. "Never compromise on pizza toppings," he'd said, and Zayn had only known him for a week but could already tell this was the main life philosophy of Niall Horan.

Louis hands Niall and Zayn three slices each of chicken parmesan, but Zayn leaves the plate in his lap to study the others. They divvy up their pie, half mushroom and green pepper, half every single kind of meat the place offers, then tuck in. Or Louis does; Liam regards his slice with apprehension, the evil foe he's not sure he should even try to vanquish. Zayn treads cautiously.

"So, how much do we owe you?"

Liam waves that aside. "Our treat," he says, like it's anything he's ever said to Zayn before in his life.

"Cheers!" Niall sounds appreciative, but Zayn doesn't often trust unearned gift horses from Louis, as they tend to be of the Trojan variety; he starts carefully inspecting his slice. Louis rolls his eyes.

"Zayn, just put it in your mouth," he orders, and Niall joins him in throwing balled-up paper towel at Liam before he can turn it into some kind of that's-what-he-said joke, because Liam's caught onto the hilarity of innuendo about ten years later than everyone else. Liam pouts, but uses one of the paper towels to dab a coat of grease off the top of his pizza.

Louis directs his attention back to Zayn with a sigh. "Alright, fine, what are you doing?"

"Looking for strings," he says seriously. Niall does a yelp-laugh right in his bloody ear, while Liam looks as affronted as he can manage when he knows he's been caught. Louis somehow uses his whole body to roll his eyes this time.

"There are no strings. We're just two lads treating our two favorite lads to their favorite meal," he says. Niall leans his plate against Zayn's shoulder to parse that one out. "And expecting nothing in return, might I add."

"The beauty of friendship," Liam finishes grandly, breaking free of his cocoon to sweep out his arms, unfortunately missing Lou's face with his pizza. Even Niall stops chewing at that.

"D'you need money?" he says suspiciously.

"What? No."

"I don't not need it."

"You want me to do your coursework?" Zayn asks, feeling weary.

"Yes, but that's unrelated," says Louis.

"You murder somebody?"

Any additional comments are swallowed up as they turn to Niall; Zayn tips his head back against his knees to get a good look. Straight up his nostrils, in fact. Niall shrugs, picks his slice back up, and takes a massive bite.

"I'd aid and abet for you lot," he says, showcasing a whole lot of half-chewed crust. “For the record.” Zayn knows he's entirely serious; it's not even the first time he's offered.

"Aw, bless, I'm truly touched. Bit disturbed, but touched." And only Liam could manage to look both simultaneously, although he has seemed just a shade under disturbed since they said hello.

"In that case, Nialler," says Louis. "Keep next Saturday open."

Zayn bounces his skull back against Niall's knee to get his attention. "You think if they murdered someone, they'd break it to us over pizza?" Niall shrugs again, balances a bit of crust on Zayn's forehead until he sputters away.

"Would work for me." Niall screws up his face in contemplation, the kind he saves only for situations requiring painful deliberation--a takeaway menu, historically. "Actually, can't think of a situation where it wouldn't."

"What an _interesting_ revelation," Louis says, grin nearing Grinch levels of evil. "Never would have guessed." Zayn gives him a pointed look, but before he can say anything, Liam rather explosively cuts in.

"It's just lunch, and a bloody delicious one at that!"

Everyone quiets; Louis tries to get a slow clap going, but Liam traps his palms together in one hand. He clears his throat, then, sweetly, like a grandmum over tea, asks, "So, what've you boys been up to lately? Any new developments?"

Zayn stares: at Liam, up at Niall, back to Liam.

"We saw you not even twelve hours ago," he says. "And every day since term started."

"Twelve hours, though, loads can happen in twelve hours."

"For instance," Louis says. "Liam created a real work of art in the hallway."

"Shut it, Lou."

"The colors, the projection--"

"Is there anything in this flat that hasn't been puked on?" says Niall.

"The pizza, I hope," Zayn jokes, then, more seriously, "right?" He's lost a few hours worrying over Lou's impending payback for last month's Toothpaste Incident, if he's honest, and Louis has barely touched the pizza--although that's probably only because he hasn't stopped talking long enough to do anything else with his mouth. Case in point:

"We go hard, and I won't apologize for it."

Niall snorts. "Right, Liam's a regular rock star." Liam looks confused, like he's not sure if that belongs in the insult or compliment column.

"We've been calling him Oliver Reed," Zayn adds. Niall pulls at the back of his hair a bit, and Zayn definitely doesn't lean into it.

"Who?" he whispers. Zayn rolls his eyes and Niall yanks on his hair again, because even if he couldn't see it, he still knows it happened.

Leaning his chin on a fist, Louis gives Zayn an assessing, squinty-eyed stare. "What else have you and Niall been doing?"

Zayn flaps what's left of his slice at him. "Eating pizza."

"Watching football."

"Looking for new friends."

Louis and Liam just chew in silent contemplation, eerily synchronized. Like cows.

"Jesus Christ, you gonna watch the match or us?" Niall sounds half exasperated, half confused, but Zayn's starting to work it out.

"I'm not sure which is the more interesting subject, honestly," says Louis.

Zayn threatens with his half-full Coke can. "I can tell you which is more dangerous." Louis raises his hands in surrender, but still looks far too reluctant as he retreats and faces the television.

They manage to take in a few minutes of the game, interrupted only by Niall's running commentary on how shit the officials and the players and the coaches are, but Zayn can't concentrate much; he's too busy watching Louis watch them from the corner of his eye. When he tries to get comfortable, rests his head against Niall's leg and tucks an arm round it for optimal snuggling action, maybe a bit of a kip--same as he would any day of the week, really, regardless of whose leg--he sees Louis give Liam a covert poke. Or as covert as Louis ever gets, which is to say, not at all.

He adds up the eyebrowing from the night before, Liam's pointed questioning, the pizza and plates and forks, how bloody _interesting_ Louis has been finding everything, and solves it (a bit later than he’s proud of, yeah, but the free lunch did do its trick):

They _know_.

One day in and they already know. Fucking hell, he does need new friends, preferably ones that don't pay any attention to the shit he does.

"Jesus Christ," Niall spits, and Zayn blinks back to the game; he's not sure what's happened, exactly, but York City's striker is rolling all over the pitch and dramatically moaning in pain. Niall mutters something about penalties and payoffs and--the mob?--then, louder, "Fuck it, if I'm gonna keep watching this, I'll need a stronger drink." Via Zayn's shoulder, he vaults laboriously out of the chair and storms off in the direction of the refrigerator.

"Yeah, me too," Zayn says after a moment, offers to grab a beer for Liam just to watch his face go the color of his dingy socks, then heads to the kitchen. The stolen cardboard noodles are still in the corner where Zayn left them, and where they’ll probably stay until graduation. He finds Niall next to them, mixing up a Coke and whiskey that's mostly just whiskey, tongue poking through the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Zayn dips close. "They know."

Niall laughs, bends to eyeball his glass, shrugs to himself then tops it off with a bit more whiskey. "They know nothing." He looks up at Zayn. "What?"

"They know about--about, well, you know." Zayn sticks his head inside the cupboard under the guise of getting a glass, but mostly it's just to hide his face and the color it's turning. "Us. Our thing." He reemerges to watch Niall's eyes go wide.

"About the...?" He mimes a blow job, tongue bulging his cheek out obscenely and rather accurately, and Zayn knocks his hand down before he can add to the image.

"Jesus, like, not that specifically," Zayn says. "But I think maybe Lou saw us snogging yesterday?"

"Aw, shit, and when we were here the other night..."

"Right."

"Shit." Niall bites at his thumbnail. "Fuck." He scrubs at his hair, too, and that makes Zayn worry when he hadn't really thought to. Niall didn't want Louis to know last night; if he does, do they stop?

After all that--the pub alley, the kitchen floor, the kitchen _again_ \--they just go back to before? To nothing?

Zayn's heart goes heavy and drops like a bloody anchor.

"Is it, like," he flounders a bit. "Catastrophic?" He's at least glad this conversation is taking place clandestinely, because he's not sure he could have managed to get that out at a normal decibel.

Niall considers this for a moment, then lets his hand fall to his side, wipes it on his jeans as he says, "It's--well, um. I mean." He won't look up. "Do you think so?"

"No," Zayns says, before he's even really finished the question, and then about four more times. His cheeks go hotter. "I mean, if you don't, like." He pauses. "Do you?"

Niall tangles his fingers in his hair again, then finally meets his eyes. "I," he starts, stops, Zayn considers sucking down the whole bottle of whiskey in one go, until: "No, I--no, 'course not."

Zayn breathes for what feels like the first time since this conversation started, then takes a mental note to hit himself over the head at some point later when he's alone. He needs to whack his brain back into working order. "Okay."

Niall takes a deep gulp of his cocktail and makes a face. "It's just--you know they'll wanna _talk_ about it."

"Liam," Zayn says, and rolls his eyes.

"Exactly."

"You know what we should do, then?" Zayn shuffles close so they won't overhear, even though he's pretty sure they're having their own secret pow-wow one room over. Niall leans in, stares up at him like he knows something good's coming, and Zayn's pulse does a funny little stutter. "Let's fuck with 'em a bit. Get ‘em like they're trying to get us."

"What, like, smoke 'em out?"

Zayn shrugs. "It's gonna come out eventually, might as well make ‘em as uncomfortable as possible in the process."

Niall grins wide at him, harbinger of foggy morning afters with new scars and overdraft fees and missing trousers. "You play dirty, Malik," he says. "I like it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When they wander back to the living room--Niall carrying both drinks, Zayn getting a quick grab of his arse on the way--Louis and Liam do a decent job of pretending they weren't on tenterhooks waiting for their return.

"But I'm not even hungry," Liam is saying, still all pathetic and swaddled in his duvet.

Louis plucks a shriveled pepper off a slice of pizza. "You'll feel better. Here, have a vegetable." He holds it up to Liam's lips, but they stay sealed tight--and somewhere Jamie Oliver's sobbing into his hands over university students and their eating habits. "Vitamins. Nutrients. Antioxidants, Liam, yum."

"You lot are weird," Niall says.

"We are? Us. _We're_ the weird ones."

"Well, you're feeding each other pizza toppings, so I'm gonna say yeah." Niall lets the chair swallow him up, a bit of his cocktail sloshing over the rim of the glass as he sinks back.

Louis scoffs. "Remember that time you called at three in the morning 'cause you two were locked outside in just your pants," he says. "With _cornettos_."

"We woke up and wanted ice cream." Niall shrugs. "Nothing weird about that."

"We might've also been high," Zayn adds. Making sure Louis and Liam are watching, he nudges Niall's shin with his trainer. "Budge over, babe."

Niall barely has time to get the glasses stable between his thighs before Zayn's folding himself down next to him. It's a bit like trying to do crunches in quicksand; he's not quite sure he has the core for it.

"Yeah, we're weird," Louis says.

After a bit of--dignified, surely--flopping, Niall hooks an arm round his middle and manages to get him mostly upright. "Christ, you worm, be still."

"It's the bloody chair, not me."

"Watch yourself," Louis says. "I love that bloody chair. So does Liam."

"Well," says Liam. Off Lou’s look he gives him a consoling pat on the knee and adds, "It does bring the room together."

If by “bring the room together” he means take up the whole sodding thing, then yes, Zayn supposes that’s an accurate assessment. He generally thinks of it as a pretty solid metaphor for Louis as a person, actually.

"It's a safety hazard." Zayn wiggles a bit more; he's fully pressed against Niall's side, his left arm pinned under his own arse in a way that would probably be uncomfortable if he could actually feel it. "You should have to sign a waiver."

"I'll have my attorney draft one up."

"Lads," Niall says, stern as he gets. "Watch the game." He settles his arm over Zayn's shoulders and curves his hand round his jaw, aiming Zayn's head at the TV. Liam obeys, but Louis is still eying them; Zayn knows because he generally makes a habit out of not doing what Niall says, too, mainly because of how red it makes him.

 _Show time_ , Zayn thinks, then drags his still functional hand down Niall's bare arm, fingertips slow and heavy. He feels Niall twitch a bit next to him, sees the goose pimples he leaves in his wake, and realizes that the full benefits of this plan hadn't entirely occurred to him until now; this is going to be _delicious_. He gets a light grip on Niall's wrist, starts tracing out letters there, secret-message style. Liam gives a pointed cough, so he does _L-O-L_.

"Here, take your drink," Niall says. "I'm not a table." His cheeks are starting to pink up rather nicely. Zayn grins as he accepts the glass and takes a sip; Niall pulls a grotesque face in response.

"Oi, Nialler," says Louis, and they both look over. "That bloke from last night text you yet?"

"Bloke from last night?" Liam scrunches his face in confusion.

"The one Liam wanted to fight?" asks Niall.

"I--what?" Liam winces. "Oh, remembering hurts."

"Right, the guy with the hair." Louis looks directly at Zayn when he says it, and he doesn't miss the calculating tilt to his smirk; Zayn used to be the guy with the hair.

"Harry's his name, and yeah," Niall says, then shrugs. Liam's eyebrows go from concerned to cautiously intrigued.

"Well, well, rather enthusiastic, don't you think?" Louis says. "You into him?"

Strange to stare at someone when you're talking to someone else, Zayn wants to tell Louis, but he doesn't much fancy getting involved. He just chokes down another gulp of his drink, glad he let Niall mix it good and strong. And Niall's laughing, anyway, shaking his head like Lou's daft for even asking; Zayn rests his pinky against the delicate skin of Niall's wrist.

"Can never have too many mates, right?"

"Debatable," Zayn says. Louis rolls his eyes.

"Hang on, wait, should I never go back to Simon's?" Liam asks. "Is my face gonna be on wanted posters? How bad was this?"

"Wouldn't even crack your top ten." Louis kicks his bare feet up onto Liam's lap. It's funny, really, that they're so suddenly obsessed with how and where Zayn touches Niall, considering the amount of time they spend crawling all over each other.

"I know that's meant to be reassuring, but it's mostly just depressing," Liam says. "And I blame you entirely." Louis leans over to pinch his cheek; the answering crinkly eyed grin is a bit blinding--and honestly, Zayn and Niall are the ones under the microscope?

Although Liam and Louis haven't been messing around. Or at least as far as he knows; he’s always wondered, actually, what it is they get up to when it’s just the two of them. Chase each other round with vodka and coasters and hatch plots of general societal menacery, Zayn imagines.

Niall's palm lands with a heavy smack on his knee. "Losing focus?" he says quietly.

"Doing all the work here, me," Zayn mutters. "Let's see some effort on your end."

Niall bites down on a smirk, leans in so his mouth is tight against Zayn's ear, lips so close he might as well just put them there. Zayn considers suggesting it.

"God, don’t look now but I think Louis’s head's gonna blow clear off," Niall whispers. “Like, spin all the way round and fly out the window.” He snickers a little against Zayn's neck, and all he wants to do is pull him closer.

"Keep going, then."

“Right,” says Niall, close and quiet. "So, yeah, blah blah blah, I'm saying sexy stuff.”

Zayn bursts out laughing, high pitched and helpless, the kind of stomach-straining giggles that always set Niall off, too, until they’re just collapsed on top each other, breathless, eyes streaming.

Louis and Liam want to know why, of course, because they want to know everything about everyone.

"Inside joke," Zayn rasps, once he can get his lungs halfway full again. Liam frowns.

“But we are on the inside,” he says. "Secrets don't make friends and friends don't make secrets, you know!"

"You sound like my primary school teacher," Louis tells him.

"Not the first time he's heard that, I'm sure."

"It's not," says Liam, and with a filthy wink by his standards, "In fact, some people rather enjoy it."

"Christ!" Niall plugs up his ears, and they all groan a bit while Liam goes all smug and proud. He holds his hand out to Louis, who gives him a reluctant high five with his bare foot. "I liked you better when you were all concerned with being sensible," Niall says. "Before Lou got to you."

"Oh, go on, it was a group effort," says Louis modestly.

“You can be sensible and still make great jokes.” Liam goes ignored, mainly because it’s what he deserves, but also because Bradford scores and Niall tips half his drink onto Zayn's jeans in celebration--on purpose or accident, Zayn's not entirely sure.

"Sorry, mate, sorry," Niall says. He tries to sop it up with the bottom of his shirt, but Zayn pushes him off.

"Whatever, it's a loss cause."

Niall gives his cheek a light slap. "With that attitude. There're towels in the bathroom, I bet."

Zayn stares at him. "You think?"

"Yeah, Liam? You got towels in the bathroom?"

"We do try to keep up with the latest in civilized human technology," Liam says, a bit bewildered. "So yes, we have towels."

"In the bathroom?"

"Jesus, Niall, yes," Louis groans, pretending to smother himself with a pillow. "Towels in the bathroom, throw us a parade."

"Right, I'm just gonna pop off to the loo, then." Niall gives Zayn a pointed look--he _winks_ \--then scrambles out of the chair, leaving the three of them to gape at each other until the bathroom door slams and Zayn's brain catches up to what he thinks might be happening.

"I'm gonna..." Zayn stands, points with his thumb in a vague direction behind him. Liam and Louis blink back at him with identical blank faces. "Gonna get a towel. From the loo."

He heads in the same direction as Niall, and when he glances back over his shoulder, Louis and Liam are craning their necks round to track his progress. They both scramble to look as nonchalant as possible when Zayn catches them: Louis grabs Liam’s nose and twists, and he hears more than sees Liam’s protest as he pushes the bathroom door open without knocking.

He realizes belatedly that Niall might have actually just gone off for the toilet; luckily, he's only perched on the rim of the bathtub, one shoulder against the wall, mobile held inches from his face. Zayn closes the door behind him and Niall spares him a quick glance.

"Took you long enough," he says, then tosses Zayn a hand towel.

Zayn sits down next to him and tries to soak up the distillery on his thigh. "Did you dump that over on purpose?"

"You think I'd waste perfectly good whiskey like that?" Niall goes back to his mobile. "Just took advantage of a situation. I'm kind of brilliant, you'll notice."

"Might've called it something else," says Zayn. "What's this, then, Scramble?"

"Shut it, I'm concentrating."

"Won't matter, you'll never beat my score." Zayn watches over his shoulder as Niall gets increasingly frantic, swiping the same four-letter words over and over until he throws the thing down on Liam's hideous shag rug in protest.

"Sod it, that game's shit." He folds over to retrieve his mobile. "And I know you've been cheating, anyway."

"Oh, have I? How's that, then?"

"I don't know, but I know you're doing it." Niall gives him a petulant look, but it lasts only about two seconds before his mouth curves wide and deep and chases it away. Zayn smiles back at him because--actually, he doesn't know why, he just does, and then he thinks that maybe if they're going to pretend to fool around they may as well actually do it.

"You know," Niall starts, swaying a bit towards him, but there's a thump at the door before he can finish. They both go still. Zayn hears:

"You're a _terrible_ spy."

"That's literally the worst thing anyone’s said to me. And shh, they'll hear you."

"Pretty sure they already have,” and that's Liam, with a terrible attempt at a whisper.

"Or maybe they're too engaged at the moment to notice." Louis, of course; Zayn can practically hear the dumb look on his face.

Niall rolls his eyes at Zayn, annoyed but mostly fond. He grins back, then gives a ridiculous moan that’s maybe more barn animal than porn star; it takes Niall both his hands and Zayn’s shoulder to stifle his laughter.

“Oh, god, my towels,” Liam whispers beyond the door, and Zayn tries to disguise his giggles with another moan.

“Oh, Zayn!” Niall shouts, hand to his head like the swooning protagonist of a romance novel, and is that--

“A southern accent?” Zayn whispers. “You sound like Scarlett O’Hara.”

“Who?” Niall mutters back, then, much louder, “Harder! Better! Faster, Zayn, stronger!"

“With the towel, babe, the towel!” They both nearly collapse back into the tub when they hear Liam’s panicked groan; Zayn’s ribs ache with the effort of stamping down his laughter, and Niall’s curled up next to him like a roly poly, face full-on tomato.

"What's the plan, what’s the plan, we just gonna stand out here and listen to them, you know, go to town?"

" _Go to town_ , Jesus, Liam," Louis hisses. "And of course that's not the plan."

"Watch," Zayn whispers--a lot quieter than Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, thank you very much--and untangles from Niall, then tiptoes to the door.

Louis is muttering, "Sometimes a plan isn't fully realized until after the fact--"

"You are talking out of you arse right now. Right now and always."

"Fuck off, just because I'm actually willing to _do_ something besides worry--"

Zayn yanks the door open and Louis comes tumbling in, arms swinging wide as he tries to catch his balance.

"Gotcha!" he shouts on the way down, and Liam saves him from losing any teeth against the sink with a hand fisted in the back of his jumper. Lou’s triumph turns to confusion when he rights himself only to find Niall doubled over with laughter and Zayn leaning casually against the wall, fully clothed.

"Gotcha right back, mate," Zayn manages, then laughs until he’s braced against his own knees and blinking back tears.

“Oh, ha-fucking- _ha_!" Louis kicks at Zayn’s shin while Liam gathers up all the towels and hugs them close to his chest; Niall does collapse into the tub, then. “Really, what an absolute riot.”

“Listening at keyholes,” Zayn says, wiping at his eyes and shaking his head. “That’s what you get, Inspector Closeau.”

“Can’t you ever insult someone with a reference they’ll actually get?”

Zayn ignores Niall; he waits for Louis or Liam to say something, but they keep their lips buttoned, glaring silently through narrowed eyes.

“Christ!” Niall shouts, exasperated, pulling himself out of the tub with the shower curtain. “You’ve been trying to get something out of us all day, why don't you just spit it out already?”

“Fine, yeah, we wanted you to, but--fine!” Louis glances at Liam, shrugs, takes a deep breath and says, “How long have been together?”

Zayn feels a bit hysterical. He looks to Niall for help, but he seems just about as gobsmacked, staring at Louis with his mouth hanging open like something out of _Looney Toons_.

“Together?” Zayn finally says. He points to Niall, then back at himself. “Together like, uh, _together_?”

“We’re not, you know, judging,” Liam says. “I mean, I may not understand it--or, like, it’s not what I would have expected from you lot, pairing off or what have you--even if Lou wasn’t that surprised--”

“Liam,” Louis interrupts, before Liam dithers himself to the point of suffocation.

“Right, right, what I mean to say is,” Liam casts around a bit, tucking the pile of towels snug under his chin, then continues with, “Why haven’t you told us?”

“Thought we were best mates,” Louis says. “That’s a massive secret to keep, even if you did a shit job of it.” He folds his arms, going a bit stony, and Zayn can only blink back. He’s not sure what to say; he’s afraid of opening his mouth, because he might just start laughing and never stop.

Niall clears his throat. “We’re not.”

“Not what? Keeping it secret?”

“Together,” they say at the same time. Zayn very attentively watches Louis put on a wry smirk, because for some reason he can’t seem to look at Niall anymore.

“Don’t try that one, lads, I saw you last night,” he says. “Practically shagging next to the dumpsters.”

“Well, yeah, except--” Zayn tries, but Liam cuts him off:

“And the night before! On my couch!” He points, like they need to be reminded of the location.

“We’re not together,” Niall says firmly. Zayn crosses to the toilet and finds a seat on the closed lid, resists the urge to put his head between his knees.

“But you’re wearing his shirt,” Liam tells Niall.

“No, that’s his." Zayn keeps steady eye contact with his trainers; it feels like the safest bet, at the moment. “I just borrowed it for a bit.”

“I’ve literally never seen him wear it.”

“So what?” Niall bursts out. “Zayn wears everyone’s clothes. He wears your clothes. You wear Liam’s clothes. Doesn’t mean a sodding thing.”

“Right,” Zayn agrees, except it barely comes out; he clears his throat and tries again. Louis rounds on him this time.

“Maybe not alone it wouldn’t, but these things add up,” he says. "Doesn’t help your case.”

“Case!” Niall laughs, and the familiar sound of it is a life raft. “What case?”

He finally looks up and finds Niall; he’s smiling so hard the muscles in his jaw are jumping, like maybe he’s trying to keep from laughing even harder, and that makes Zayn sink back against the toilet in relief (why is this happening in a bathroom, he wants to know). This is ridiculous--Liam and Louis think they’re actually, like, a proper couple. Laughter is the _only_ response.

When Niall made his pitch the night before, there hadn’t really been any point where he’d thought to say no. The way Niall said it made sense, and they made sense, and maybe it’s harder to understand from the outside, but that's okay; he knows Niall never cares how he looks to other people, even his best friends. Zayn decides he shouldn’t, either.

“There is no case. We don’t have to prove anything to you,” he says. “We aren’t on _trial_.”

“But you are!” Louis shouts. “Let’s look at Exhibit--um,” he stops to count off on his fingers, “Exhibit D! Your _anniversary_ party. Remember that?”

Zayn waves him off with a laugh. “Fucking come off it, that was just an excuse to get drunk with loads of people and you know it.” He shakes his head. "Totally circumstantial."

“Plus the second year’s paper and Zayn found that oragami book in the canteen,” Niall reminds them.

“Look, while we all love to get drunk--”

“Well--”

“--especially in the company of Zayn’s paper cranes--shut up, Liam, you do too--most friendships don't get parties.”

“The best ones do,” says Niall. “Or they ought to, at least.”

“If you want a party, all you have to do is ask,” Zayn adds. “No need to cause any aggro over it."

“I do want a party, but that’s not the point.”

“Get to it, then, for the love of god.”

Louis looks over at Liam, and Liam just looks back over his armful of terrycloth. He’s gone a bit blank, like he wandered into a room and forgot why he’s there; Zayn sympathizes, specifically and generally. He sets his shoulders in a firm line.

“The point is," he says. "You're dating and you never told us and you’re still not telling us and that’s really... that's just... it's..."

“Not cool," Louis finishes.

“You’ve got it all wrong." Zayn slides his bum along the edge of the tub until he fits against Niall’s side, a unified front against this bloody unhinged offensive. “First off, Niall and I are always cool. Second, and for the last time, we are _not_ fucking together! We’re just, like...”

“Fucking,” Niall says, and Zayn rolls his eyes while Louis and Liam just about lose theirs on the bathroom floor; he was aiming for a bit more delicacy than the verbal equivalent of a wrecking ball.

“Each other?” Liam looks about as scandalized as one of the characters from the Victorian novels Zayn had to slog through last term.

“Yeah.” Niall shrugs. “Nothing to shout about.”

“So this is, what?” Louis does some complicated hand gestures that Zayn’s quite relieved never made it into words. “A fuck buddies situation?”

Niall shrugs again next to him, the bare parts of their arms sliding together, dry and warm. “Yeah,” they say in stereo.

“I don’t...” Liam moves his mouth a bit but nothing comes out. “This is a terrible idea."

Zayn rolls his eyes at Niall, who looks rather offended.

“What's wrong with you, it's a brilliant idea.”

“No, it’s one of those things you think’s great and then later realize is shit and when I remind you that I said that from the start you just tell me to shut up.”

“Can we just skip to that part, then?” Zayn mutters to Niall, who meets his outstretched hand for a rather robotic high five without looking over. Niall's too occupied with trying to set fire to Liam with just his eyes, heat high in his cheeks and forehead folding over his brow. He's not laughing anymore.

“How is this a problem?” he says. “What’s it got to do with you?”

“Yeah, really,” says Zayn. “They’re our bits. What we decide to do with them isn’t put to vote.”

“It should be!” Liam’s getting properly wound up now, and that’s usually when he says his most infamously ridiculous lines, but it looks like Zayn’s the only one noticing: Lou’s quietly watching like he’s at a slo-mo tennis match, while Niall’s suddenly vibrating next to Zayn at a frequency he can’t quite fathom. This has spun out in a direction he hadn’t expected, and _fast_.

“Jesus Christ,” Niall swears, rubbing at his forehead roughly. “Can’t you just leave it?”

"Leave it? Fucking... how do you not get this? Like, what happens if you start, you know, if one of you starts liking the other?" Liam's still gripping those goddamn towels, skin pulled bloodless over his knuckles.

"Well, we've been mates for two years and I've hated him the whole time, so no worries there." Zayn desperately wants to make Niall laugh again, thinks maybe if they get that right then everyone can relax and go back to football and pizza and things that don’t make Niall dig fingers into his bad knee like that.

He barely registers, though; Niall just dials up his glare. “Shut up,” he bites. “That’s not--it’s not like that.”

Zayn pushes past the hot, tight feeling in his chest. “It’s just some fun, Li. Chill out.”

“It won’t be fun when one of you gets hurt,” Liam says. His eyes dart to Zayn, then back to Niall, and the thing is, he’s not concerned, or angry, or shocked--just oddly, massively freaked. “It’ll end up meaning more to one of you and I think--I think we can all guess how that’ll end.”

Or not, Zayn thinks. Because he hadn't even thought to.

Liam correctly interprets whatever Molotov cocktail of confusion and surprise and worry blows up all over his face and makes a furious grab for the fuse. "Oh, bloody typical," he spits. "Oi, Nialler, wanna get stupid high and suck my dick with absolutely no thought for how it could ruin our friendship?"

"Liam--" Louis tries, but he keeps going.

"Fuck _yeah_ , Zayn, 'cause we're too cool and chill for consequences."

It's an appalling series of impressions--he didn’t even do the accents--and Zayn would be insulted on behalf of everyone involved if he weren't already occupied with trying to fill the awful silence that follows. Liam really does have his primary school teacher act down; Zayn almost wants to go stand with his nose in the corner.

"It wasn't _my_ idea," he finally says, weak and wrong, dead wrong, because Niall immediately springs to his feet, so quick Zayn hears his knees creak.

“Shut _up_ ,” Niall repeats, but to who, Zayn's not sure. “Nothing bad's going to happen, Jesus.”

“But--Niall, you can't guarantee that. It could, so easily, everything could change and you might never set it right again." Liam swings the focus back to Zayn. "Think of everything you're risking."

They're all staring at him now but it's Niall he watches, that face he knows so well but not at all, not now, not with the line of his jaw pulled so tight, his eyes gone so dim.

Zayn hadn't thought to say no. He hadn't thought to _think_ , really, just acted on impulse, meeting Niall halfway like he always does--

"You've gotta stop," Liam says--

and there are always scars, there are always fees, but they're always worth it, too.

"Zayn."

Aren't they?

He shakes his head; two conversations at once and he's not sure which he's in.

Liam whips his towels at the sink, presses fingers into his eyes with a low groan. "Right? Lou, come on, what do you think?" he pleads.

"I think..." Louis pauses, doesn't even consider Niall in his examination, just Zayn, and he’s not sure he wants to know what he’s looking for or what he finds. "I don't, uh,” he scrubs a hand violently through his hair, “know."

"With a k or an n?" Liam asks, a bit desperate.

"They've both got an n," Zayn says quietly, with the full knowledge that no one’s really listening. And true to it:

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Niall’s hands make fists at his sides. “You can’t just sort through a friendship from the outside and decide how it is. We aren’t open to interpretation. This isn’t your fucking lit class, Zayn’s not going to help you write a paper about symbolism and fucking, like, similes or what the fuck ever. You’re--you’re just,” he shakes his head, breathing hard, and Liam actually takes a step back, eyes gone wide. “It's fine--better than, even, it’s fucking good and easy and I’m not going to let you cock it all up just because _you_ can’t--”

“Niall!” Liam says, quick and a little too loud.

He stops, mouth still hanging open, but nothing else tumbles out besides a rough laugh of a middle finger--short, sharp, entirely lacking in humor. And then he’s pushing between Louis and Liam and straight out the door, no glance back, while Zayn just looks from the lip of the tub like it’s a movie he’s watching, like there’s a screen and a reason stopping him from reaching out and pulling him back like he wants. They hear him banging about the flat and Zayn’s positive those last two are the front door: open, then violently, pointedly shut.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes, massaging at his temples. He feels pulled in every direction at once. Liam’s eyes catch on his, and they’re sad and sorry and more than a bit terrified.

“Shit,” Liam mutters. “Bollocks.” He sags against the tile wall.

“Blimey, Liam, where did that all come from?” Louis puts a cautious hand on his shoulder. “I mean, it’s not that big a deal. Not worth all this, anyway.”

“It is, though.” He groans into the wall. “Think I’m gonna be sick.”

“You don’t think you’re overreacting? Just a bit, maybe?”

“No, no, I mean,” Liam takes a shuddery breath, then pitches toward Zayn. “I’m going to, like, actually vomit. Hangover, pizza, please--please leave right now.”

Zayn doesn’t need to be told twice; he leaps up and for the door, and Louis follows, pulling it shut just as Liam gets to heaving and moaning into the toilet about self-sabotage.

Zayn looks at Louis. “What the fuck."

“Basically,” Louis agrees. He clears his throat. “Listen, for what it’s worth, like, I’m sorry. That was... massively stupid.”

“Well, yeah.”

“No, look, I shouldn’t have pushed it like that. I thought...” he trails off, directs a bit of a squint at Zayn.

“What?” Zayn sighs, but Louis just continues to study him. “ _What_?”

He offers up a conciliatory eye roll, and he's probably the only person Zayn knows that could manage one and mean it. “I did get it all wrong.” He rubs at the back of his neck and says, with a crooked, sad little smile, “And don’t get used to hearing that.”

“Oh, go on, Tommo, Niall’s got, like, the emotional memory of a goldfish. Give him some space and he’ll be just fine," he tries, but it does nothing to smooth out the worry wrinkled across Louis's forehead--or, for that matter, Zayn's.

So he pulls Lou in for a quick hug, for the benefit of both, because this is what he knows how to do best; he likes words--he’s good at them, too, wouldn’t be going for English if he weren’t--but now and then they go wrong, or get stopped up, or just don't _work_ the way you want. Touching is so much easier, sometimes: arms round shoulders, hands on necks, fingers through hair. He tangles himself up in his boys, drags them in to try and reinforce the places that have been stripped too weak and bare by all the stupid shit they've done and do and, every once and again, do to each other. He can prop Louis back up, if that's what he needs.

“Haven’t seen him riled up like that in ages,” Louis murmurs, face squashed against Zayn's neck. "Neither of 'em, really."

“Should’ve seen Nialler last week, then, when I double knotted all his Supras up in one massive chain.”

Louis chuckles, his fringe tickling Zayn's nose, and it's a comforting, familiar touchstone in the midst of all this fuckery. This row came up so fast and fierce and Zayn's still reeling from it, and maybe the worst part of it is that he can't work out the _why_ \--Niall's anger, Liam's panic, where the fuck did it all come from?

But Louis seems just about as flummoxed, and that makes Zayn feel a bit better, if not less stupid or confused; he huffs out one last sigh from under Zayn's chin, then pulls away. "Come on, then, let's fix up a drink and you can reenact it for me."

"Loads of Godzilla stomping," Zayn says as he follows Louis to the lounge, then nearly walks right into him when he comes to a sudden halt.

Louis grabs back for his arm. "Oh, that little _shit_.”

"What?" Zayn whispers back, without really knowing why.

"We've been robbed!"

Zayn checks for the TV, Liam's iHome, that dumb fucking lawsuit of a chair. " _What_?" It's all there, everything like they left it. Well, except--

"The pizza!" Louis shouts, then, "But he couldn't have--" and sprints for the refrigerator. Peering inside, he belts out a no that Darth Vador couldn't beat in terms of projection and regret, and Zayn wonders why he even bothered explaining Super Ball-like emotional recovery to this knob.

"What now, Louis," he sighs, thinking longingly of his cozy bed and blackout curtains. "Bloody hell." He's finished with the theatrics today, thinks it's about time for a good long lie down.

"He nicked the garlic bread," Louis moans. " _And_ the mini pancakes."

Or maybe it's about time he finds Niall.

“Lou, help, I got some on the towel!” Liam calls from the bathroom.

“Yeah, see you later,” Zayn says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shoes--and one sock--kicked off, pile of Dominos boxes in his lap, breadstick in the corner of his mouth like a cigar: that's how Zayn finds him, back at their flat. Feet on the coffee table with the second half of the game on, flipping off a fairly reasonable call with enthusiasm. Niall tilts his head back against the couch to look round at the snick of the door closing.

"Oh," he says. "Hello."

Casual as can be. As if he didn't just storm out of his best mates' bathroom after admitting to a graphically physical relationship with another.

"You alright, then?" Zayn asks cautiously. He wanders over to his end of the sofa, toeing his trainers off along the way.

"Bit stuffed at this point, but yeah." He holds out one of the boxes as Zayn flops down next to him. "Breadstick?"

"Heard something 'bout mini pancakes," Zayn says. He's torn between not looking at Niall and not looking at anything else; Niall's mouth cuts open on an evil smirk, and it's pretty easy to guess which wins out.

"Warming 'em up in the oven," he says. "They come with chocolate sauce."

"Wicked." He considers pulling up the Dominos menu on his phone for more innocuous conversation, but he knows they need to get things sorted, otherwise he'll end up stuck with this robotic caricature of a roommate. "So you're... alright, then?"

Niall doesn’t look away from the telly, just aggressively tears off the end of a breadstick with his teeth. "Didn't we just do this?"

"Yeah, but, like, I want the real answer," says Zayn.

"You already got it," he says, shrugging. "I'm fine."

Zayn wearily rests his head against the back of the couch. "Come on, Nialler. You mad?”

“Nah.” He finally looks over, and he's telling the truth. “Just got sick of talking about it. Trying to explain something simple to two berks like that, don’t need the stress.”

“So you, what," Zayn squints. "Staged a strop, then? To steal dessert?"

"And breadsticks,” he says, mouth full of one. He offers the box again. “They didn’t deserve them.”

"Good thinking." Zayn takes one and they toast. “Cheers, mate.”

And that's it. Total goldfish, he thinks.

They see the game out and celebrate with a bit of wild dancing when Bradford wins; Zayn does some arm work from his seat on the couch, and Niall riverdances furiously while taking the pancakes out of the oven in an impressive display of multitasking ("Irish birthright!" he explains). He nearly upends the entire tray when he wanders back over and catches Zayn’s flailing.

There used to be only three people Zayn was fearlessly willing to make an idiot out of himself for, just for a laugh, and they were all his sisters. He cared quite a bit about looking effortlessly cool, which actually took fuckloads of effort--until he met Niall, that is, and Liam and Louis, and realized he didn't need to try that hard. Especially not in comparison. Maybe sometimes he'd rather make someone laugh than wear a bowler hat and four different rings on the same hand. He waves his arms about like a drowning octopus and Niall cackles.

“I’m going to get you pissed and tape you dancing and put it on YouTube."

“Better pray for your trainers then, bro," he says, even though he's not sure he'd mind all that much; if Niall's going to keep grinning like that, he's willing to take responsibility for making sure it stays. And anyway, he can dance just fine when he tries--Danny made sure of it before seeing him off to uni. There are already YouTube videos.

Niall shudders, then passes over the pancakes. "Alright, truce, truce," he says. Zayn just ruffles his fringe in response. They tuck into dessert, flipping through the channels until they find one of those home video programs where people get hit in the bollocks a lot.

Niall pours half the thing of chocolate sauce on one pancake and tells him, "Aiden said there's a party in his building tonight. Feel up to it?"

"Eh, dunno. I'll probably just chill here. You?"

Niall shrugs, says with his mouth overflowing--and he really needs to stop doing that--"Yeah, I'm good here." He smiles, bit of chocolate on his lower lip. "Think that nature show is on again later."

"Brilliant, let's--oh, wait, hang on!" Zayn springs up and trips to his room, rummages in his sock drawer until he's sinking back into the couch with a lighter and a nearly fresh spliff. "Yeah?" he asks, flipping it in his fingers.

"Now that's the craic," Niall says, and Zayn's still not entirely sure what that means but he passes it over anyway. They polish off the pancakes--they have to break into the Nutella, because "they never give you enough sauce," according to Niall--while lazily burning through the spliff. The air is heavy with decent weed and chocolate and a little leftover garlic; Zayn hums, slouching back against the cushions, watches a little parade of penguins waddle along on screen.

"They're so cute," he says, feeling his mouth form the words very carefully, and realizes belatedly like he always does that he's really fucking stoned.

Niall agrees with him in Spanish, then asks, "Should we ring the village idiots?" He sounds nearly apologetic.

"Nah, let 'em stew in their, like, disapproval or whatever for a night." Zayn's not too keen on another lecture, especially when there's spliff and Niall and weird animals doing weird shit in HD to enjoy. And Niall. Might've already counted that one, but he can go twice.

"They're probably just sitting downstairs wondering what we're doing with what body parts," Niall says, then snorts.

"And secretions." Somehow his Liam impression has turned into Prince Charles. Zayn laughs to himself.

"New rule." Niall flops his head over and rests his hand on Zayn's shoulder; his fingers slip under the collar of his shirt, press hot against his skin, and Zayn's not looking but if he did he thinks he'd see sparks. "That word is now banned."

"Can't ban words, you fascist," Zayn says, thinking about how much smarter he always sounds when he's high, and he's already pretty bloody smart to start with. "Which word? Secretions? Secreeetions?" Ruined it there, but now Niall's snorting against his shoulder, so it's a worthy sacrifice.

"No, stop, sto--"

"Secreeeeeeeetions," he says gleefully, getting up in Niall's face. Normally this would dissolve into a wrestling match, maybe a food fight, depending on what's within arms' reach and how hungry they are, but there are new rules now. Or just less of them, maybe, more lines they can't cross fading each time they touch.

Niall grabs him by the ears and muffles his teasing with a snog.

So it's still wrestling, really--Niall climbing on top, manhandling him into the couch with strong, calloused hands--just with better endings. Suddenly a bright new world is dawning, right behind Zayn's fluttering eyelids; a world full of clean dishes and extra bog rolls under the bathroom sink and coursework finished before two o'clock in the morning when they should both be snoring anyway, all achieved via sexual bribery. He gathers Niall in closer, presses a few spindley fingers down the back of his sagging jeans.

They kiss deep, slow, all tongues. Niall tastes like dessert. It reverberates straight out Zayn's toes, sparks from his fingers where they trace into Niall's skin, and Zayn thinks of it as a kind of recycling. His blood feels syrupy, like the melted chocolate he poured over his pancakes; Niall rocks against his cock that's gone too hard too fast, blabbers into his mouth about who knows what, and he can feel his blood heating up, can smell the liquid cocoa.

"Oi, Nialler." He draws back with some regret and Niall tries to follow his mouth, eyes still pinched shut. "Wanna get stupid high and suck my dick?"

Niall's eyes pop open and he laughs, too loud, too sweet. Zayn wants to taste that from the inside so he does, licking greedily into the hollows of his mouth. Niall doesn't stop laughing, even as he works both their zippers down, and it's Nutella and pancakes and weed and something bright and rich that he finds with his tongue, that he keeps chasing until Niall has to gasp off, hips working harder.

"Yeah," he pants, smearing it into the column of Zayn's throat. "But only 'cause I'm so cool."

Fuck, Zayn loves hooking up high; they should send Liam a thank you card for the suggestion.

Niall gets both their dicks out, spits into his own hand, and starts wanking Zayn off, lazy, tight, his breath hot in Zayn's ear. Zayn goes shivery with it. He tilts his head back and concentrates on everywhere they're touching, moaning behind lips pulled tight when Niall uses both hands to rub at the head, like a Boy Scout trying to start a fire; Zayn feels it glowing in his gut. Niall hitches forward a bit and their bare cocks bump.

"You gonna help me out, maybe?" Niall knocks their foreheads together. "Be a gentleman?"

"Anything you want," Zayn says, just for the grin it feeds, then rolls Niall off so they're pressed side to side and can fist each other's pricks with minimal effort. "Glad my fuck buddy's a leftie."

"Alright, yeah," Niall mumbles, hips twitching when Zayn slides his thumb against the slit, slipping easy with how wet it's gone. "Less talking, more ball grabbing."

"You're telling _me_ to stop talking?" Zayn laughs, but still leans over to add his other hand, rolling Niall's balls against his palm. Niall hisses through it, grinning in that way that Zayn now knows means he's close, and he doesn't even complain when Niall's hand on him slows then stills, just takes it out on his dick, twisting, pulling, dragging his thumb from behind his balls all the way up the vein and over the slippery, scarlet head.

"You got it, babe, go on," Zayn rumbles low in his ear. Niall pants against his neck and he catches it all this time: teeth dug in his bottom lip until it goes nearly white, throat working furiously, cheeks ruddy and so hot he can feel it against his own. Niall moans brokenly and it sounds a lot like his laugh, grins so hard his eyes can't open, and comes up over the lip of Zayn's fist. He keeps up his pace, firm and steady while he goes soft, until Niall makes a noise that gets caught deep in his throat and shoves Zayn away.

"Fuck, that was good," he gasps, shudder still lingering in his hands as he pulls Zayn's mouth in for a sloppy kiss. He lays his head back on the sofa, flops his arms at his sides like a rag doll. "Alright, do with me what you will."

"Lazy shit," Zayn laughs, and Niall just smirks up at him, fumbling for the Nutella jar. He scoops a bit out with his right hand and slides the fingers in his mouth, sucking round them. It draws out a bit of a moan, not so different from when he was being wanked, and Zayn gets his own cock in hand. Niall's spunk gets the slide of it just right. He leans one elbow against the armrest, tilts his head over to watch.

"Here, feast your eyes." Niall rucks up his shirt to reveal the pale stretch of his stomach, getting a bit of Nutella on the hem. His dick's still hanging out of his pants. Trailing his fingers up his ribs, he tries for some more exaggerated moaning, but the cackling sort of gets in the way.

"You bloody barmpot," Zayn grunts, shaking his head, squeezing himself at the base until his toes curl.

"You're eating it up," Niall tells him. He tucks himself back in, grins lazy, then leans over to smear Nutella across Zayn's bottom lip with his thumb.

Before Zayn can lick out to taste it, Niall's there, sucking it off with swollen lips. He digs in with his teeth and Zayn's cock jumps in his own hand; he wonders how Niall got to know this stuff so quick. Zayn whimpers, licks in past his teeth and gets a heady taste of hazelnut and Niall. HazelNiall.

"Disgusting," Zayn mumbles, pulling him in for more. Niall stacks their hands up together on his dick.

"Right, still want a BJ?" Niall grins at him, one of his teeth blocked out by Nutella. He looks like a fucking idiot; Zayn kisses him hard. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

"Maybe just always assume yes to that question."

"Alright, let's see..." Niall rolls his gaze down, rubs gently under the head of his dick. "Like this," he says, yanking on Zayn's hips until he's fully propped back against the armrest, beanpole legs splayed out, one hanging off the couch. Niall tugs his briefs down further, then settles on his stomach between Zayn's legs, head propped up on both fists.

"You having a staring contest?"

He licks his raw lips. "Just planning my mode of attack." Smirking, Niall pulls the jar of Nutella out from the cushions and coats up two fingers. Zayn groans.

"You're throwing that away immediately."

"Nah, we've just got to label it. 'Sex spread,'" he says, finger quoting, then trails Nutella up the underside of Zayn's cock. Whatever Zayn was going to say to that--and it was going to be good, always is--gets lost in a gasp when Niall goes in with his mouth. He sucks him down, tongue swirling and flattening, then pops off. "Not to be weird or anything, but this is fucking delicious."

"Yeah." Zayn swallows, throat gone dry. "Don't stop. Get weirder."

Zayn folds his elbows up over his face and it doesn't take very long, but it feels like he's been waiting ages so he doesn't give a fuck. Niall's mouth is electric, sending hot jolts up his spine, and he digs his nails into Zayn's thighs to keep him still. The weed's got his edges blurred out; he feels like he's melting into the couch while Niall works him, filling his gut up with something sweet and shivery that rises up past his lungs and his throat until it's exploding behind his eyelids. He doesn't give much of a warning--bad form, maybe, but with the way Niall's sucking on him, smearing it all over with both hands, it doesn't seem like he minds much. He pulls off slowly, wipes his lips off with soft pecks to Zayn's thighs and stomach as they calm. 

"Good?" Niall asks into his skin, still settled close between his legs; he lets his palms rest hot and heavy on Zayn's hips.

"Yeah." Zayn reaches down to thumb at his chin where it's still shiny. "Better than a penalty kick, at least."

Laughing, Niall nips at his finger. "Highest praise."

Zayn takes some time to get his breath back, and because he's blissed out on weed and pancakes and penguins and Niall's mouth he non-sequitors with, "Liam's dumb."

Niall goes completely still, then crawls up Zayn's body until he's looming over him, head still tipped back against the armrest. "Yeah?" he says, quiet and a little too small, nothing like Niall bloody bigmouth Horan. It breaks something off in Zayn's chest.

"So dumb," he tells him firmly. He slides his hands through the hair sticking madly out from the back of Niall's head, rubs his thumbs against the soft skin behind his ears.

"The dumbest," Niall manages to get out, but it's mostly into Zayn's mouth as he pulls him down to slide their tongues together. It's decisive, but Zayn worries a bit that it's not a full stop, more like an ellipsis off the end of a sentence.

Because when Niall pulls back, he says, "So you don't want to stop," and looks down at him with strawberry cheeks, pale hair glowing blue from the telly. His eyes are bottomless, and Zayn wonders if maybe--

Then Niall wipes his spunky hands on Zayn's top, and it's actually his own for once, so Zayn sends him flying onto the floor. He gets stuck in the space between the coffee table and couch, squawking like the tropical bird on TV, and Zayn's not going to bother with stupid shit he hadn't considered before; there's a reason he didn't, and it's because he _shouldn't_ , doesn't need to.

"Why've I only got on one sock?" Niall asks, face smashed into the carpet.

Liam _is_ dumb. And wrong. Just so dumb and wrong it's fucking hilarious, so Zayn laughs with one arm over his face while Niall tries to pull himself up with the other.

How can anything be wrong if nothing's changed?

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for a while and I've decided to just go ahead and start posting; I wouldn't say that it's _unfinished_ , exactly--unless by "unfinished" you mean not finished, because that would be a pretty fitting definition--but chapter updates could maybe possibly probably be few and far between.


End file.
